


Contrition

by Saber_Wing



Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), Marvel Contest of Champions (Video Game), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And A Battalion of Therapists, Angst and Tragedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Character Death, Civil War (Marvel), Depression, Drama, Feels, Fever, Friendship, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Morally Gray Steve Rogers, Nomad Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, References to Drugs, Sick Tony, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/pseuds/Saber_Wing
Summary: The Civil Warrior travels the multi-verse to spare others his tragedy. This time, he arrives too late. But that won't stop him from trying.
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Avengers Team
Comments: 94
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I'm going to regret posting this before I have any other chapters written buuuuuut, here we go! 
> 
> This universe is loosely based on Avengers Assemble. You won't need any background from the show to follow this story, and if you do, it will be written accordingly. I learned about the Civil Warrior, in Marvel, Contest of Champions, and his story compelled me. I'm really excited about this, hence the early posting. I want you all to remember I said that, when I'm pulling my hair out later, but I couldn't wait to share it with you xD. If you aren't familiar with the Civil Warrior, I invite you to google him. If you'd rather be surprised, I won't go into further detail here.
> 
> I will also be updating the story tags as they become relevant, so please be sure to glance at them whenever I update. 
> 
> If you'd like to set the mood, [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxYGs3dLFCQ) is what I listened to while writing it.
> 
> Thanks in advance, everyone! Journey starts now.

This, Tony decided, was bullshit.

He groaned. Shifted onto his hands and knees and tried to take stock of himself. A few broken ribs. A…punctured lung?

He struggled to get his feet under him. Labored to push himself up on arms that shook, but something in his chest shifted – a burst of sharp pain. A paroxysm of coughs seized him, and he tasted blood in his mouth. Couldn’t take a full breath.

Impossibly, he heard footsteps approaching. Tony instinctively raised his palm, cursing when he realized, of _course_ there wouldn’t be a repulsor there now.

“It’s all right.” The guy’s voice was modulated, but Tony didn’t think he was imagining the way it softened. He approached slowly, hands raised in a manner he probably hoped was placating, but only pissed Tony off more.

Tony and ‘all right’ hadn’t resided in the same universe for an awfully long time. Talk, dark, and armored here wasn’t likely to change that. Unless he wanted to shoot him in the face, but alas, it was not to be. He offered Tony a hand instead.

“ _Is_ it?” Tony scoffed, seething, pushing him away. “Good to know.” He blinked. Reached up to rub his eyes with his least bloody hand – blinked again.

What he was seeing didn’t make sense. It made less sense than the hell he’d been living for the past year and a half. Less sense than Ultron taking over the world with an army of freaks and a government pension.

Did the suits _fuck?_ Was this what it would look like if Cap and Iron Man procreated? Iron Cap? Captain Man? He choked on a laugh – shrill, hysterical. It wasn’t funny, but what else was he supposed to do? How else should he be capable of rationalizing why there would be a man where nothing existed for miles, outfitted in bastardized Stark-tech that looked more advanced than anything Tony had ever created?

A man clad in silver, with disquieting accents of red, white, and blue.

Tony’s strength gave out, and Iron Whoever-the-Fuck slid an arm around his waist before he could face-plant, supporting him, holding him up. “W-Who _are_ you? What the hell are you supposed to be, m-my…knight in s-shining armor?”

Iron Impostor huffed, shaking his head as he knelt beside Tony. “Something like that.”

Tony’s reply was cut off by another grueling series of coughs. He covered his mouth with one hand, hacking uncontrollably. Curling into himself. Shit, his chest hurt. It felt heavy. Each breath harsher, wetter, harder won than the last.

“You know,” Tony rasped, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “I’ve learned to live with a f-flexible definition of okay, but I’ve g-gotta say…you’re –“ He broke off when another spasm of coughs wracked his battered frame. “—you’re pushin’ it, pal.”

“Never could keep your mouth shut to save your life, could you, Stark?”

The words should have upset Tony. Should have touched something red, raw, and bleeding. But they were familiar enough to give him pause. There was something wistful behind that mechanical whir of a voice. Something that stopped his heart. Kept him warm, despite the cold spreading from his chest. He found himself responding in kind. “I r-resent that. I am the picture of health and restraint.”

His rescuer chuckled. A thin, choked off sound. “You never change.”

Tony focused back on him with all the energy he could muster. Halted him with a hand beneath his chin. He couldn’t have exerted enough force to get him to face him. He didn’t have the strength, but the armored warrior obliged him anyway. He turned his head. Almost instinctively, it seemed.

It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t be what the blood loss was trying so desperately to tell him. It couldn’t be who Tony wanted it to be.

Tony yearned to pull off that mask. Wanted it with everything he was, but his arm was shaking badly. He couldn’t hold it up.

His rescuer noticed. The warrior reached out. Took Tony’s hand and held it between both of his.

It _couldn’t be._

Tony’s vision blackened dangerously, eyes blurring with tears. This was crazy. _He_ was crazy. But he had to say it. He had to know. His breath quickened.

“Steve?”

Iron Cap paused, almost imperceptibly. He resumed course after a beat or two, dragging them on as if nothing had happened. Arm fastened around Tony’s waist.

He wanted to push it away. To dig his nails in, and never let go. To hold his stupid metal face between both hands and _scream,_ because he wanted _so_ badly for it to be true, and it wasn’t.

He had the headstone to prove it.

Another coughing fit seized Tony. A mouthful of blood exploded from his lips, clotted and wet. He was drowning in his lungs. For _so_ many months, he thought he’d rather be dead, but he didn’t want to _die._ Not like this.

His rescuer half dragged them into a one-room shack, and he seemed to understand that Tony’s rising state of panic wasn’t helping his chances. He was trying to calm him, setting him down on a cot that looked ancient and moth-eaten, and probably was.

“S’St’ve…” Tony couldn’t speak. Couldn’t force the words through the blood bubbling from his lips, spilling down his chin.

“Shh, shh…” His rescuer soothed. He tore the remains of the undersuit away.

“St—” He had to know. If it was the last thing Tony _did,_ he had to _know—_

“Shh, Shellhead.” The pet name seemed to pain him. His voice broke, in a way no modulator could ever mask. He hushed Tony. Stroked a thumb along his cheek. “It’s all right. You can talk all you want later, but right now, you need to stop. I need you calm. I need you to breathe for me.”

“No. St’ve….” Tony could feel his eyes darting around wildly. From his rescuer’s glowing eye slits, to the conspicuous ‘A’ on his forehead. Steve. Steve. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

It _had_ to be, or he’d dig himself a matching hole in the ground.

Please. _Please._

Tony wheezed. Reached a shaking hand up, reaching for him. “S’ve…”

“ _Damn_ it.” The warrior cursed — the words guttural, rough with desperation. Quiet enough that Tony was sure he wasn’t meant to hear them. With a frustrated shake of his head, the warrior pressed a release switch under his chin. Removed the helmet and placed it gently, almost reverently, on the floor beside the bed.

Tony stared.

He didn’t know how, but that was Steve’s blond hair, floating around his head, like a halo. His beloved face—peppered with more shadows and lines than Tony ever thought he’d see. Those were Steve’s blue eyes, bereft of everything but pain. Hollow as the cavity in Tony’s chest, and the grief clawing beneath his skin.

This was not Steve Rogers, Tony thought, anger burning the tears beneath his eyes. It was a caricature. A facsimile. A shell. A phantom with his lover’s face.

He wanted to rip it off.

Because this was not the man with whom Tony fostered a family of misfits. Who had a sweet tooth a mile wide and put near-empty milk cartons back in the fridge, because a centimeter of milk was still milk, and – _liquid gold is what that is._

This was not the man who brought him coffee after workshop benders. Who accompanied Tony to tech shows he hated because he loved to hear him ramble. Who woke him with kisses and straightened his ties. Who carried him to bed when he pretended to fall asleep, and always had a spare arc reactor, just in case.

This was not the man he'd married. Who’d taken one look at Tony, gliding down the aisle on Rhodey’s arm, and burst into tears, because— _you’re so goddamned beautiful._ This was not the man who knew every ugly trait Tony had and loved him enough to want them. Who mapped out every neuroticism and saw something no one else had ever seen, or ever would again.

This was not the man who had gazed up at Tony and smiled in his final moment alive. Who’d wasted his last breath telling him he loved him, as Tony held his intestines in his useless, gauntlet-clad hands and tried to shove them back through the gaping holes in his gut, like that was going to help anything. It was not the man who had reached for Tony’s face with a shaking hand. Wiped the tears from his cheeks and left streaks of blood in their place that he refused to wash off for three days.

Steve Rogers was, in death, what he would never have wanted in life. A little piece of heaven—become Tony’s own personal hell. God, he’d spend millennia in hell, just to see him again. One in every circle, and everything in between.

This shadow was not that. This man who was Steve, in nothing that mattered. Who was looking at Tony with a level of reverence that scared the shit out of him. A chasm in his eyes, so dark and deep, he'd only ever seen it reflected in a mirror. Only ever felt it in the band on his finger, and the dog tags draped around his neck, like a noose. They choked the life out of him. Every moment of every day, and Tony would rather hang than take them off.

One year, six months, and fourteen days.

He never planned to break that streak.

“St’ve.” Tony was sobbing. Choking on another mouthful of blood, but he couldn’t stop, not for all the world. Not for anything. Because this was not Steve Rogers.

But it was the closest he was ever going to get.

Tony was vaguely aware of someone else in the room. Of a voice, screaming. _“Shut 'im up. For Pete’s sake, shut him up!”_

“Shh, shh…Tony. It’s all right. Listen to me, just this once. Please. Just this once, and I’ll never ask again, I swear. I swear.” Steve cupped his cheek. Tony could feel his fingers shaking. Words wobbling and panicked. “Shh. Shh…”

Gradually, between Steve’s coaxing, and what he suspected was a heavy concoction of sedatives, Tony settled. He was so frightened. God _damn_ it, he was scared, but Steve was petting his hair. Barking orders over his shoulder in a stern baritone that twisted his grief-addled heart.

Steve had been burnished tan. This man was a ghost, in every sense of the word. His skin, nearly gray. But he brushed Tony's hair back, like his husband used to. Took his hand. And if he closed his eyes, he could pretend for a while.

“That’s it, there you go. It’s gonna be okay.” Someone was prodding his chest, his ribs. A pair of hands, harder, and harder, and Tony still couldn’t _breathe._

“Shh,” Steve soothed, tracing a line on his cheek. “Slow breaths. There you go.”

Slow. Slow seemed best, didn’t it? Tony tried to comply. Struggled to clamp down on the harsh, pitiful, stuttering breaths spilling from his lips. “You’ve got this, Tony. You’re okay. Shh…”

His chest hurt. Oh, fuck, it hurt _so_ much. It seemed to be getting worse and worse –and while the sedatives were keeping him from reaching full-blown panic, he knew this was not good. They were hovering over him, which instantly had him on edge. They were too close. Way too close. Did they have to be _that_ close to his chest?

The other person said something to the Steve shadow. Tried to coax him out of the way. And that _wasn’t_ okay, not at all. Tony’s breath quickened, and he tightened his grip on his hand. He couldn’t speak, but the small, pitiful whine that sprung from his lips seemed answer enough.

_Don’t go._

Tony couldn’t say it. But, as luck would have it, he didn’t have to. Steve sat back down. Rested a hand in his hair and stroked his forehead with a thumb. Once. Whether it was a motion meant to comfort Tony, or himself, he couldn’t say.

“Okay. It’s okay. I'm here. I’m right here.”

They didn’t try to move Steve again.

Tony should have been embarrassed about that. Would be later, if he survived this. Right now, he was incredibly, selfishly relieved.

Tony’s hand was white knuckled around Steve’s. He could have broken the grip like it was nothing, but instead, he brought up his other hand. Cupped Tony’s between both of his. He stroked his thumb along his fingers, pausing when it brushed across the metal on his left ring finger.

Steve's vision was enhanced. He could see it. Tony was sure he knew what it meant. He could see the wing motif carved into the band, even in the too-dim light of the room. He could see everything.

For the first time, Tony witnessed something other than pain in his eyes, but it wasn’t any better. Now, they just looked profoundly, immeasurably _sad._ The silence hung for a time; heavy. Palpable.

When he finally spoke, it was with a soft, all-encompassing warmth, but he whispered it like an oath. A promise meant only for his ears.

“I’m not your husband. I'm sorry. But I’m here to help. I won't leave you, I promise.”

What was _he_ sorry for? Whoever this shadow was, _he_ didn’t kill his doppelgänger. Didn’t sink his claws into his guts and rip them out like trash. He didn’t need to be sorry.

Why did hearing him say that hurt so much?

Tony was crying. He was dimly aware of that. Of tears, quietly carving a path down his cheeks. They had nothing to do with his broken ribs. With his probably collapsed lung, restricting every breath.

Was it so terrible, to want to believe him?

He decided he didn’t care if it was terrible. Because Steve’s shadow was here, holding his hand.

He’d sold his soul for less.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat graphic, violent descriptions. Just an extra warning. And, thanks for being here. Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Nomad was not a patient man, and what little patience he _did_ have was running perilously thin.

“Well?” he ground, voice rough with disuse. Not much to use it _for,_ when you lived between worlds the way he did. He tapped his foot, the metal on his greaves scraping against the wooden floor.

His unlikely companion bustled about, fiddling with medical supplies. This place had once been a clinic, he said. The area was remote, the curtains, moth-eaten. There were signs it had been lived in for a while. A cot, in the corner. A woodburning stove.

“Well, what?” The old man turned toward him; a drawer clutched in one arm, rummaging through it with the other. “Keep your shorts on, son. I ain’t a miracle worker.”

Nomad clenched his jaw, gathering up the frayed edges of his control.

Presumably, this was the old man’s home, though why he hadn’t moved on when this town went bankrupt was a mystery he hadn’t deigned to share. His beard was long and unkempt. His hair, dark, and greying, and there was an intelligent twinkle in his eyes, though they were perhaps a bit wild. He claimed to have been a physician, and Nomad was glad to have found him. He’d been kind enough to welcome them into his home, even after Nomad had helped himself to it. And, he couldn’t tie stitches like he used to.

Tony was asleep now, head tossing restlessly upon the pillows. He was helpless, like this. Vulnerable as sin. Delirious with fever, and half-blinded by pain. Nomad wasn’t used to being idle, in the face of that. He should patrol the area. Set up a perimeter. He had no idea what forces could have it out for Tony, after all. But he couldn’t leave him. Didn’t trust his ‘companion’ not to gut him like a fish, and trade him in for whatever he was worth.

He’d need to find his footing here. Fast.

“Ah, ha!” The man – he’d introduced himself only as Talcot – found what he was looking for. He held up two plastic vials of pills and shook them triumphantly. “Knew I had these ‘round here.”

Carefully, Nomad extracted his hand from Tony’s with a pang of guilt. He plucked them from Talcot’s fingers, squinting at the faded labels dubiously. Amoxicillin. Ibuprofen. He scoffed. “Don’t you have anything stronger?”

“What do I look like, an apothecary? Only one a’ those was clear across town.” Talcot threw the drawer down on the table with a huff, moving toward what seemed to act as a kitchen, around the woodburning stove. “Most I can do with this lot is stave off infection. He’ll pass out if the pain gets too bad, I reckon. Might scream himself stupid, first, though.”

Nomad’s lip curled, stomach churning. Like hell he would. He’d pull his own teeth out with a rusty pair of pliers – one by one— before he let that happen. He narrowed his eyes, flipping the bottles over to look at the lot numbers. These had expired years ago, but they had to be better than nothing.

Talcot thrust a cup of water into his hand that, surprisingly enough, looked decently clean. “Give ‘em two of each, and make sure he drinks that. ‘e needs to stay hydrated. I ain’t got anything to give ‘em in an I.V.”

Tony was breathing harshly, eyelids fluttering. They’d propped him up as best they could to help him breathe, but he needed more than this. Needed more than this husk of a town, and that husk of a man. More than the famed Civil Warrior, and the half-life he lived.

“Hey,” he murmured, cupping Tony’s cheek. He’d removed one of his gauntlets, and he slid that hand carefully beneath his head, lifting it gently. Tony didn’t wake, but he groaned softly, lips cracked and bleeding. “I know, I know. But I need you to drink this, okay?”

Tony didn’t seem to hear him, but his lips stayed parted enough that Nomad could slip the pills carefully onto his tongue. He managed to coax him into drinking from the glass he held to his lips, but for a moment, he almost choked on it. Most of the water spilled down his chin, but he managed to keep the pills down.

It wasn’t enough, but it would have to be. For now. Nomad’s heart twisted. He snatched a rag from the table beside him, wiping the stray droplets away.

Tony’s chest was bare, wrapped in thick bandages and gauze from his waist, to his pectorals. They covered the reactor’s harsh glow. No blood had seeped through, which was good – he hadn’t torn any of the stitches, despite his thrashing – but they’d have to change them soon.

Talcot had implanted a tube in his chest to drain out the air that managed to seep in through the wound, and that seemed to be helping a bit. He was breathing more easily now. And the truly horrible blue tinge that had crept over his lips was beginning to recede. God almighty, Nomad wished he knew more about that hunk of metal in his chest. Surely, he had trouble breathing normally at the best of times, with that thing lodged in his sternum. And he sure as _hell_ wasn’t gonna find him any oxygen in this rat’s nest.

The tube should fix his collapsed lung –Nomad didn’t know what he was going to do if it didn’t— but this environment was far from sterile, and he was grateful for any antibiotics, even expired ones. The last thing they needed was an infection when Tony wasn’t stable enough to bundle up and rush to the nearest medical center.

Nomad sighed. He had surmised that this was a world in turmoil, else he wouldn’t be here at all. But he had no idea where here _was._ No inkling of this universe, or its state of disrepair. Would Tony Stark even be welcome at a medical center? He couldn’t ask _him,_ and Talcot seemed to know extraordinarily little.

Nomad had scarcely been here for over an hour before he’d heard an explosion overhead. Seen a man who could only be Tony Stark, with that glowing in his chest – falling out of the sky. There’d been no sign of anyone or anything else, though he’d been running away from _something._

Tony tossed his head on the pillows, dislodging the cloth from his forehead with soft, pained whimpers that made his heart twist. No pain killers, no oxygen, no running water? For God’s _sake._ What _could_ he do for Tony, in a place like this?

Nomad clenched his fist. So hard, his knuckles turned white.

There had to be something. _Anything_.

“You said there used to be an apothecary nearby.” His eyes never strayed from Tony’s face as he replaced the cold cloth on his forehead. He cupped his cheek. Stroked it, with a thumb. “Would they have left anything useful? Morphine?”

“I reckon it’s possible.” Talcot scratched the back of his head, seemingly perplexed. “They’d have taken most o’ it, but folks left in an awful lot a’ hurry.”

“Good. Go there. See what you can find.”

Talcot scoffed. “That’s clear across town, son. I told ya. I ain’t fixin’ to run a marathon.”

Nomad shut his eyes. Forced himself to take a steadying breath. “I don’t want him in pain.”

“Aw, come on now, little bit a’ pain never—”

Nomad slammed both palms down on the table. He spun on his heel and raised his arm in one smooth motion, turning toward Talcot and powering up both repulsors with a mechanized whine. “I _said_ , _”_ he spat, rage bubbling beneath his chest. “I don’t _want_ him in _pain.”_

Talcot raised both eyebrows, glaring dubiously at Nomad’s glowing blue palm. He didn’t seem the least bit afraid. Whether that made him exceptionally brave or exceptionally stupid was anyone’s guess.

There was something deeply wrong with Nomad. A disconnect—between who he was, and who he’d been. He was untamed. Unhinged. He would shoot this man; if he thought it would gain him a damn thing.

Talcot sighed. He threw up his hands, rolling his eyes skyward. “All right, all right. Don’t get your panties all up in a twist. I’m goin’, I’m goin’. Shoot an old man in his own home. You got problems, m’ friend. Problems, indeed. Why, I oughta…”

Nomad watched him go, slamming the door shut behind him. He laughed. A sharp, humorless thing. “Don’t I know it.”

All at once, the ire seemed to drain out of him. He staggered backward, collapsing heavily onto the chair with his head in his hands. He’d yet to put his helmet back on, and he felt impossibly vulnerable without it. Bare, in a way he hadn’t for years.

People wanted so badly to believe that everything they did was a part of something greater. That they were each puzzle pieces in a black and white world, with a rhyme and reason bigger than themselves. They wanted to believe there was a place for everything, and that everything would stay _in_ its place. That they could live, and love, and that brothers would always be brothers. Friends would always be friends.

Nobody wanted to put themselves under a microscope. To gaze within and find that there wasn’t a logic to any of it. He’d been like them, once. He understood. That was why he was here. To force their hand. To make them see.

He was the noose, at the gallows. The axe, in the headsman’s hand. The demon, buried in a shallow grave, inches from the surface of the earth. He was the Civil Warrior. Instrument of Justice. Champion of Truth. Reaper of the Multiverse. Or so they thought.

“H’rts,” Tony moaned. He ground his teeth, clawing at the sheets with white knuckled hands. His eyes fluttered open for a moment or two, though they were focused on nothing. Hazy with confusion, and his voice trembled with pain. “H’rts. It h’rts, it…”

“I know. I know.” Nomad wet the cloth again. Traced the beads of sweat trailing down Tony’s cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

If that old codger wasn’t back in an hour, he would _jog_ the next town over and steal it himself. God _damn_ it.

Tony’s head lolled, a lone tear trickling down his cheek, and Nomad nearly put his fist through the wall.

There had to be some morphine in this hell hole. Some measure of _relief_ in this god damned place.

He didn’t know the first thing about this Tony. There’d been something in his eyes, he supposed. Something broken, and bleeding. They were big, and brown, and he allowed himself to think they were beautiful, because they were. Nomad had been many places, but Tony always had pretty eyes. In his world, they’d been brilliant blue. Blue, like a cloudless summer sky.

He should have thought about how pretty they were, before he’d bashed them into his skull.

“St’ve…” Tony slurred. His voice was soft, cracked around the edges. He grasped weakly at the bedcovers, his hands like claws. Reaching. Searching. For his husband, he supposed.

What a shame, that he had Nomad instead.

He wasn’t who he needed. Wasn’t who he’d cried for, so hard, it stole his breath.

Nomad wished he could be that man. Let himself wish it, more than he had any right to. Surely, there must be something left of Steve Rogers. Lingering, like a ghost. Surely, he must have _something_ to give.

He got up and paced, fingers threaded through his hair. Sticking up in wild directions, from where he’d grabbed fistfuls of it, repeatedly. He sat heavily back in his chair. Stroked Tony’s forehead, helplessly. He was far too warm. His cheeks, flushed red.

Nomad plucked a thermometer from their pile of supplies and held it under Tony’s arm. Kept it there until the timer beeped. “Shh, shh…”

104.6.

He couldn’t shoot _this_ enemy.

Not knowing what else he could do for him, he soaked a few more cloths in tepid water. Laid them over Tony’s arms and legs. It wasn’t a bath, but it was better than nothing. And ibuprofen wasn’t morphine, but it should take the edge off. Eventually, one or both seemed to bring him some measure of relief. He settled gradually, hands relaxing their grip around the sheets. Breathing leveling out into something tamer.

Nomad was not a nursemaid. He was not a hero, or a martyr. He was not a good man. He was a wanderer. A vagabond. A corpse, who hardly knew he was dead.

But the man who had been Steve Rogers—the man who still was— couldn’t bear to leave Tony. Any incarnation of him. He didn’t have the strength. Not again. Never again. He’d travel to one thousand worlds. And one thousand times, he’d bring him home.

Nomad had destroyed _his_ home. Gazed down at a man he’d loved more than life and brought his shield down upon his face. Watched as the smooth edges cut-into those sky-blue eyes he used to draw in his sketch book and crushed them into nothing.

Tony’d had freckles. Most people didn’t know that. Barely there, along the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t known it himself. Miracle, that he’d seen them. That he’d only crushed the top half of his skull. The rest of his head was amazingly intact. The human body was incredibly resilient, against bone-crushing force, wasn’t it? He’d even managed to turn his head before he threw up. Above all other things, Tony would have appreciated that.

It said something about the two of them, he thought, that even now, he knew Tony would forgive him the rest.

That was okay. Nomad would hate himself for the both of them.

He buried his face in his hands. Legs shaking. Breath trembling from his lips.

He’d promised he’d take care of him.

This time, he had to mean it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to me -- and this really should have occurred to me before -- that he wouldn't refer to himself as the Civil Warrior. And Steve, well. He hasn't been that for a long time. Nomad fits him. Also, like a bit of a nod to the comics. He's just a little...unhinged. You would be too. Poor guy. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! I welcome any and all feedback; kudos, comments. But it is of course, not required <3\. No pressure. Just sit back, and enjoy the ride.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why hello there, my dears. Welcome back! Who's ready? I'm ready! 
> 
> Have fun <3
> 
> And as always: I love you.

Tony woke to the worst cotton mouth of his life and a splitting headache. Considering he had exceptionally large blocks of time from his early twenties that he still couldn’t remember, that was saying something.

This wasn’t his first rodeo. He’d woken in puddles of his own vomit. He’d woken with cuts, bruises, and broken bones. He’d woken in a desert cave with a car battery in his chest, and a mouth so dry they could have pried it open and filled it with sand. 

Tony was having a hard time remembering any of that now. He groaned. God, he was _thirsty_.

Sluggishly, he rolled his head around on the pillow, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead, in some vain, pathetic hope that might stop it from spinning. It didn’t.

The movement did, however, tug at something in his chest. It hurt. He should probably investigate that. He’d get around to it. Right after he convinced his stomach to stay where it was. Maybe if he didn’t move, it would stop churning.

Tony gave himself a moment to breathe. Took stock, as best he could while trying not to exist. He could wiggle the toes on both feet. Clutch at the sheets with both hands. Far as he could tell, all digits were present and accounted for. Legs seemed shaky. Weak, like his arms. His head felt heavy. His stomach, a giant bruise. His chest...

His _chest._

He startled, thrusting both hands frantically over it. There were bandages wrapped around his torso that seemed to extend from his waist to his armpits. Coming up so far, they covered the…the…

Oh, God.

He was too lethargic to sit up, but he tried to roll over. And when he did, something _tugged_.

Whatever the something was, it wouldn’t let him move any further. Something about that left Tony paralyzed with dread. He grasped for it with clumsy fingers, feeling his way down his torso. His vision was blurred, doubling before his eyes, and he couldn’t see it. He couldn’t see what it was, or where it was connected to, but it led to _something._

He was connected to a…

_No._

He squeezed his eyes shut again, willing the room to stop spinning. Praying that the next time he opened them, he wouldn’t see what he thought he’d see, resting on the table next to him. He wouldn’t see a car battery, with a cable hooked into his chest.

No.

He wasn’t in fucking Afghanistan. He hadn’t been for a very long time. He wasn’t _there._

…where the hell _was_ he?

He scrutinized the ceiling, moderately less blurred than before, and realized he didn’t recognize it. He didn’t recognize the ceiling, and there was something in his chest.

There was something in his _chest._

There was a _car_ _battery_ in his _god damned chest—_

Distantly, he was aware that he was breathing too hard, sharp spikes of agony stabbing with every breath, head swimming, left arm shaking as he struggled to lever himself up, grasping at the cable sticking out of his stomach with his right. His…stomach?

That placement seemed wrong. The texture, some sort of rubbery plastic. Electrical cables weren’t plastic, were they?

Tony was missing pieces. They weren’t adding up.

He didn’t care. He couldn’t do this again. Whatever it was, he needed it out of him. He grasped the cable—cable? —with both hands. Couldn’t quite manage to suppress a whimper when it pulled at something raw.

“Hey!” Thundering footsteps reached his ears, and suddenly, there was another set of hands over his, prying them away from the cable. “Take it easy!”

Tony fought against them. He was laughably weak, didn’t stand a chance, but he wasn’t letting them _do this_ again without a fight. He couldn’t give them much of one like this, but he’d be _damned_ if he—

“—stop. That’s enough, you’re gonna _hurt_ yourself. _Tony!”_

That voice. Steve was here?

…Steve was _dead._ He certainly wasn’t here, in the fucking _desert._

Something about that seemed wrong. Desert.

Desert?

The man who most certainly could not be Steve wrestled Tony’s hands down onto the mattress. _Forced_ them down, on either side of his head. Tony thrashed, tried to push him away, but the fucker wouldn’t budge.

Tony tried to speak. To tell him to fuck off. To scream, cry, he didn’t _know_ what. But his mouth was too dry. His voice broke the moment it even attempted to form words, and he coughed – ow, ow, _fuck_ – lips cracked, and tasting like blood.

His captor seemed to understand that he wasn’t getting anywhere. He stopped dead, gazing into Tony’s face for the longest time, with an expression that was far too knowing. When he did move again, he did the last thing Tony ever would have expected.

He let go. Released his death grip on Tony’s arms, and Tony sure as fuck wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He scrambled away from his would-be captor, huddling at the head of the mattress.

“Get the _fuck_ away from me!” Tony’s voice cracked. He managed actual words this time, but his mouth was so parched, he immediately wished he hadn’t. Speaking was _torment_. What did he have to do for some water, in this god damned place?

Not-Steve did not try to approach, and Tony stayed crowded up against the headboard for a time, white-hot knives of agony shooting up his side. His heart was beating fast—too god damned fast. His diaphragm tried to expand in a way that it couldn’t, chafed against the arc reactor, and he couldn’t breathe.

No, not _now_. If there was ever an awful time for a panic attack, it was now. Fuck.

And he’d left his valium at _home._

Shame there hadn’t been time to grab his concoction of antidepressants and anxiety meds before...before...

The memories were coming back in flashes, and they were _not_ helping his case.

“Okay.” Steve backed a few steps away, hands raised in front of him, placating. “You’re okay.”

Tony laughed, shrill, hysterical. “I am talking to my _dead_ husband! I am _very_ not okay!”

“All right.” Not-Steve made a move toward him, looking about as lost as a grown man wearing full high-tech plate armor could. “I don’t have to touch you. But you can’t pull on that. You’re going to—”

“Ah!” Tony made a chopping motion with his hand. It was shaking. _He_ was shaking. What were those exercises he was supposed to do again? “Fuck, just…stop talking, I swear to God.”

The doppelgänger did as he was told. He remained where he was. Motionless.

All right. Okay. Tony was supposed to ground himself. Grounding. He could do this.

There were threadbare sheets bunched up in his fists. The air was crisp – a little chilly, truth be told. Sunlight filtered through the drapes on the window. There were windows. It was cold in the middle of the day, and there were windows, and he was _not_ in Afghanistan.

He couldn’t bring himself to look down. He knew he wouldn’t find what his brain was telling him. This was a visceral fear response triggered by waking up in an unfamiliar place, with his chest wrapped in bandages. Oh, God, his chest was wrapped in bandages. He was not thinking about that.

Tony had a _fuck-ton_ of PTSD. This was triggering it. He supposed it was progress, that he recognized it. His therapist would be proud.

Gradually, Tony was able to bring himself back under control. When Not-Steve did move again, he was careful to do it slowly. His actions were deliberate, designed to show Tony precisely what his intentions were. Almost gingerly, he reached for a pitcher of water on the side table, poured a glass, and set it down next to Tony’s elbow, where he could reach it.

Tony was mostly just happy to see water. So happy, he almost _cried_ , but he couldn’t trust this. Not yet. It couldn’t be that _easy._ Nothing ever was. What was he gonna do? Tear off a fingernail for every sip Tony took? He side-eyed the glass and made no move to take it, glaring at his erstwhile companion with blatant distrust.

Not-Steve met his eyes. He was older than his husband had been. Very faint lines were visible on his forehead, and around his mouth and eyes. He wasn’t _old_ , not by any means. Mid-to late thirties, at most, but the difference was striking. He had to be a clone. An LMD, or something, but that didn't add up.

Why would someone make a ‘copy’ older than his husband would ever be?

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Not-Steve telegraphed his movements again. Demonstrated by pouring himself a glass from the same pitcher and taking a long sip. After a few moments had passed, and he still hadn’t dropped dead, he set it down, looking at Tony with gentle eyes. “See?”

Tony scoffed. No poison would affect Steve, anyway. If he was supposed to believe this guy was a super-soldier…

He _wanted_ to believe him. _So_ badly. His resolve weakened.

Not-Steve nodded slowly. Nudged Tony’s glass closer. “No catch. I promise.”

_Your promises don’t mean shit._

And yet, Tony remembered not being able to breathe. He remembered a shadow, stroking his hair. Holding his hand. That very same shadow sat before him. Save for when he’d moved to pour the water, he remained in almost precisely the same position. He was taking great pains not to startle Tony. Gaze soft with sympathy. “It’s all right.”

 _God,_ he was thirsty.

Deciding that he would in fact, _rather_ die than go another second without it, Tony snatched the glass from the table like a man starved, all but sobbing with relief. He didn’t think he’d been this desperate for water in the actual desert.

Tony had the motor skills of a drunk teenager. He had to lean his weight back against the headboard so he could hold the glass with both hands, and he still managed to spill some of the water down his chin. But it was the best drink he’d ever had. He coughed when some of it went down the wrong way. Almost choked on it, like an idiot. Not-Steve chuckled, a deep, low rumble. Tony’s heart clenched.

They even sounded the same.

“Take it easy,” Not-Steve drawled, grabbing the glass back. He filled it with more water for Tony without being asked. That was nice. Whatever this guy’s game was, he was at least _trying_ to suck up to him.

“Eat shit,” Tony croaked, snatching the glass back with as much candor as he could muster. This time, he only spilled a _tiny_ bit down his chest, though he did stop to take a breath halfway through, never taking his eyes off his would-be savior.

To his chagrin, Not-Steve smiled. Small, tentative. As if he’d forgotten how and wasn’t quite sure he was doing it right.

“What are you looking at?” Tony pressed a hand to his side. He could tell he was drugged. But he was _really_ starting to hurt. If they had him on the good stuff, it was wearing off. Fast. “Can I fucking help you with something, or are you just here for the show?”

The imposter chuckled, though the sound was dark. He shook his head. “I’m just glad you’re awake.”

“Uh…huh.” A likely story.

Tony’s chest ached. His ribs throbbed. His breathing was leveling out, after heading off the mother of all panic attacks. But he couldn’t help but think he should _still_ be panicking. Maybe the drugs were working after all.

As if to prove him wrong, Tony shifted the wrong way, made his side twinge like a _motherfucker_. He managed to suppress a few choice curses, but he couldn’t hold back a wince.

Not-Steve didn’t miss that—reacted to it so fast, it almost gave Tony whiplash. He straightened his spine like a soldier at attention, glancing at a clock on the wall with a curse. “I lost track of time. Hold on.” The impostor turned around, snatching a bottle of pills from a tableful of medical supplies, and hurriedly popped two of them into his palm, coming back to Tony’s bedside with a refilled glass of water. His forehead was creased. His eyes, dark.

Tony blinked. _He_ looked awfully upset, for a potentially evil, dead husband impersonating fuckwad.

Did they think it was that easy to manipulate him? That they could use his husband’s memory as a bargaining chip, and he was so broken, he’d fall for it? It hit him like a shot in the heart. Like a punch to the face. Like that last bottle of scotch he’d slammed before he’d had to have his stomach pumped.

 _Fuck_ that. And fuck being made of iron.

He was _vibranium._ And they would never tear him down.

“I know what this is.” Tony laughed, his tone sharp. “You don’t have to lay it on so thick. Who put you up to this? Fury? S.H.I.E.L.D. swore they’d never make LMDs again, but I knew that was bullshit.”

Probably-An-LMD Steve blinked, looking so genuinely perplexed by the notion, it managed to piss Tony off even more _._ “I’m not a fake. I can promise you that. I’m not your husband. That much is true. But…”

Tony soldiered on, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. “Okay, solid maybe on S.H.I.E.L.D. Not the Avengers; what’s left of them, anyway. Don’t think I’ll be invited to the Christmas party, but—”

“Now, hold on. I’m not here to hurt you.” He said it with distaste. The kind you might feel after scraping gum off your shoe. “If you’d let me explain—"

Tony’s voice was steady. Sure. “Hammer? Nah, what am I saying? He _wishes_ he could make LMDs. _”_

Not-Steve huffed. “I am _not_ an LMD.”

Tony scoffed. “Oh, come on. My dead husband’s lookalike happens to turn up at just the right time, and I’m supposed to think that’s a coincidence? I know I’ve been hiding at the bottom of a bottle for half the year, but you don’t actually think I’m that _stupid?”_

“Tony…” Not-Steve’s expression sobered. He looked at him. Really _looked._ His blue eyes –those, horrible, beautiful eyes— were sad.

Tony whirled on him, fast. Too fast. Something in his side tore, but he pressed on, savoring the anger. Stoking the fire burning in his chest. He’d missed anger. 

It was better than not feeling anything.

“All right, listen up, Sir Lancelot.” White-hot agony burned in his side, damn near stealing his breath. “I don’t need your pity. Okay? And whatever your superiors think they’re getting out of this? They can pry it from my cold, dead fingers.”

Not-Steve was back to looking frustrated again, but he remained motionless, hands resting carefully upon his knees. “There are no _superiors._ I don’t want anything from you. I told you. I’m here to help. There’s no easy way to explain this, but it’s not what you think. I’m not from this world.”

Tony huffed out a laugh. “That’s a new one. Okay. Let’s say I believe you, Mr. Here-to-Help. We’re gonna have to go over some ground rules. Just the basics. Nothin’ big, you understand. What’s your name? Where you from? Who _are_ you? What’s your sign? Who the _fuck_ are you?”

Not-Steve avoided his eyes. “I go by many names.”

“Oh, _fuck_ off. This is not a hard question. Here, I’ll start. Hi, my name is Tony. And _yours_ is….?”

The doppelgänger looked frustrated. His eyes were dark, his jaw clenched. He bunched his fists in the spandex of his suit and said nothing.

Tony’s head was swimming. Holding it up suddenly seemed too much of a bother, so, he didn’t. Let it flop back against the headboard, wordlessly calling this shit show a lost cause. “You know what?” His stomach churned, clenching with nausea. “We’re gonna have to let this one go, buddy. My head is killing me, and if I have to keep talking in circles, I’m gonna puke all over you.”

A few blessedly quiet moments passed. He thought he was home free…until a light touch startled him. Not-Steve was hovering, pressing the back of his hand to Tony’s forehead.

“Your fever’s come down. That’s good.”

Tony stared up at him for one long, silent moment, incredulous. If it wouldn’t have caused an agony blackout, he would have thrown up his hands. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” He levered his legs over the bed. Pushed himself up, with great difficulty. “I’m leaving.”

It was Not-Steve’s turn to look incredulous.

“You don’t think I’m actually going to _let_ you leave here, in that condition.”

Tony braced a hand against his side, testing his weight. His legs would hold him. Barely, but they would. “You’re not _letting_ me do anything. That would imply you have any power over me whatsoever.”

“Tony, you’re hurt.” Not-Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The movement was so human, it took him aback. “You’re _sick._ You can’t—"

Tony hummed, following the tubing in his chest to the bottle it was draining into, carefully suspended on a metal I.V. pole beside him. “No idea how to take this out. Looks like it’s just you and me, pal.” He grabbed hold of it and used it to lever himself up, taking the extra tubing in hand, so he wouldn’t trip on it. “It’s been real. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

“Tony, for the love of _God—"_

Before he could move any further, one of Tony’s shuffling, uncoordinated feet caught on a section of sheet that had spilled onto the floor, and he tripped over it, pitching forward with a cry, a tearing sensation erupting from his side, and oh _fuck,_ that hurt. He didn’t need more things that hurt.

Steve caught him in one arm, snatching the pole with the other before it could topple to the floor, and possibly, tear Tony’s chest tube out with it.

“Get off me.” Tony's whole body felt like an open wound, but he pushed at Steve’s arm. No, not _Steve, god_ damn it. He had to get out of here. Now.

“Stop _struggling,”_ the imposter bit. “I am _trying_ to—"

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” a new voice scoffed.

Tony startled.

A man stood in the doorway. He was older, with a long, salt and pepper beard, a black and green flannel shirt, and a no-nonsense gleam in his eye. He shuffled a few steps forward and slammed the door behind him, clucking his tongue. “Now look what ya’ did. Done gone and tore half your stitches. Set him down on the bed, son. Turn my back on ya’ for a second, I swear, I swear…”

Tony could only stare. He let himself be lowered back down onto the mattress, too dumbfounded to protest.

“Well?” The old man shot Tony’s ‘savior’ a glare. “What are ya’ waitin’ for, son? Let go of ‘im and get outta the way. I ain’t getting’ any younger, and I can’t fix what ya’ broke with you hovering like that.”

Not-Steve did as he was told, looking oddly chastised. He released Tony and backed away, sitting down heavily in the chair with his shoulders slumped, like a scolded puppy.

“I…” Tony blinked. He watched the old man bustle about for a moment, grabbing this, snatching that. Humming to himself as he worked, before making his way back over to Tony’s bed. “Is this a joke?”

“Ain’t nobody jokin’ here, son. Let’s get ya’ settled, come on now.” He helped Tony shift his legs back under the blankets. He had green eyes, and there was something he trusted about them. Honest, but kind. And his hands were gentle as he unwound Tony’s bandages. “At least it ain’t all of ‘em. I’ll fix ya’ up.”

Tony let the silence drag, uncharacteristically speechless. “Okay. I’m stumped. I’ll admit it. What is this, good cop, bad cop? Are you the good cop? I’ve never been kidnapped like this before. Points for originality. Five stars on Yelp.”

The old man laughed. “You ain’t _kidnapped,_ son. What do I look like?”

“I…can honestly say I don’t…” Tony swallowed a whimper. Instinctually, he reached a hand up to brush the old man off. “…d-don’t know.”

He slapped Tony’s hand away. “Hold still. Can’t work with ya’ squirmin’.”

Not-Steve’s face was dark. His voice, pitched low. “You’re hurting him.”

The old man scoffed. “’e’s got three broken ribs, multiple contusions, and a lung recoverin’ from collapse. ‘e doesn’t need _me_ ta hurt ‘im.”

Tony mulled that over, and shrugged, nodding his agreement. He couldn’t argue with that.

Not-Steve huffed, a note in his voice that was almost petulant. “He needs his meds.”

“And ‘e can have ‘em. When ‘m done stitchin’ him up.”

For a moment, Tony thought the imposter was going to argue. He puffed his chest out, indignant, but he looked at Tony next, and whatever he saw must have taken the wind from his sails. He deflated before their eyes.

Wow.

Tony blinked.

“I’m sorry, who are you again _?”_ He squinted at the old man, who was not even _vaguely_ familiar. But he spoke to Tony with the ease of an old friend, casual. Warm. It left him feeling off balance, and more than a little disconcerted.

“Name’s Talcot. Charmed, ‘m sure. Now hold still, son. This’ll be over quick. Don’t bite your tongue,” he warned, not unkindly.

It was indeed, over quickly. Despite his grizzled appearance, Talcot’s hands were steady and sure. Tony’d popped three of his stitches. Or at least, that’s what he picked up from the man’s muddled griping.

Tony managed not to cry out. He was clenching his teeth so tightly together, it made his head hurt worse. He may have even blacked out for a moment. At one point, he blinked, his wounds were bandaged, and he was left staring up at the ceiling in a prone position, with absolutely no idea where the time had gone.

Steve was precisely where they’d left him –Tony was too drained to think of him as anyone else. He moved closer when he saw that Tony was blinking back to awareness, holding out his hand. “Here. Take these. They’ll make you feel better.”

Tony eyed the pills. Amazingly, he found himself glancing over at _Talcot_ for assurance, who was washing his hands in a basin and wiping them on a cloth that looked decently clean.

Talcot raised an eyebrow. He huffed, motioning toward Steve with a shake of his head. “Well, go on now. After all the trouble I went to ta get ‘em. It’s just morphine, it won’t bite ya’.”

 _Just_ morphine. Tony laughed, more than a little hysterical.

If this was emotional manipulation designed to soften him up, it was _working._

With a little shrug—what were they gonna do, kill him? —he fumbled them out of Steve’s palm and popped them onto his tongue. Trying, and failing, to push himself up on a shaking arm.

Steve saw him struggling. He slipped a hand under his neck, helping him drink. Tony was too worn down to protest and hated the sad, lonely part of him that enjoyed it.

Steve had always been a nurturer. He loved taking care of people. It was his shtick.

Tony’s eyes burned. He pushed the imposter’s hands away, blinking back tears.

He could feel Steve— _Not-_ Steve’s, eyes on him, burning holes in the side of his head. He ignored him. Twisted his wedding band idly around his finger and tried desperately to ignore the gnawing ache in his chest.

Talcot flitted around the room. He muttered something about fresh water before he left, large basin in hand. But the doppelgänger remained. He stayed perched in that same chair. A silent, unmoving sentinel.

Iron-Cap, he’d called him, in the heat of a moment, bleeding, out of his mind with pain. Even now, Tony thought it an apt description.

His helmet was off. He’d removed the gauntlets, at some point, but the rest of the armor stayed in place. Predominantly blue and silver, trademark star at the center of his chest. Metal greaves, traveling up his shins, and ending at the knee. Tony could see the gauntlets, resting on a table behind him. The shield propped up against it, always in reach.

Tony would swear he had made them himself if he didn’t know better. It _looked_ like his work. The sleek, smooth lines. The trademarks of his craft. He remembered thinking it looked like Stark tech, and now, given the chance to scrutinize it, he stood by that assumption. Now more than ever. It didn’t answer any questions. Only gave him more.

“Who are you?” The words slipped out before Tony realized he’d said them, and obligingly, the impostor met his eyes. It was terrifying, being under the weight of that stare. As if Tony were the only thing worth looking at in the whole world.

It made him feel small. He didn’t want to feel small. He didn’t want to look into those eyes and wish they belonged to someone else.

“Not an LMD.” One side of his lips quirked up, half a smile. It hurt something in Tony when he smiled at him like that.

“I’m starting to get that.” Tony licked his lips. He hadn’t realized how much he was tensing up before, when the pain had been so bad. Now, he could feel the tension _bleeding_ out of him. Wonderful, beautiful numbness spreading from the tips of his toes. “Where’d you get your tech? Looks like mine, but…’s not.”

 _Oof._ The drugs were hitting him hard.

“Didn’t think you’d miss that.” Steve smirked, humorless. “You never do.”

“Tell me.” Tony wasn’t quite slurring his words. But they were soft. Barely more than a whisper. “Tell me…”

“I will. When you’re feeling better.” He straightened Tony’s bedsheets. Reached up to brush his hair back, before seeming to think better of it. “Sleep. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

There were a thousand things Tony should be worrying about. He knew there was more he should say. More he should tell him. He’d just cheated ‘death by self-destruct’ after all. This was insane. _He_ was insane. There was no _time._

Tony gazed up at him. His blinks, longer and slower than ever before. He gazed up at this man who was Steve and not Steve. This man with his husband’s face, who looked at him like he was everything.

But Tony gazed up, comforted beyond reason. And as his eyes slid shut…he chose to believe him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who has taken the time to read, comment, subscribe, and/or leave me kudos. I see you. And, I love you <3

“So,” Tony drawled, around a mouthful of soup. “You ever take that off, or is that armor just grafted onto you?”

Nomad glowered at Tony from across the kitchen table. He leveled him with an unimpressed stare, trying to remember if all his counterparts had been this infuriating—or if he was just special.

For all his blustering, Talcot seemed content to fuss over the two of them. He bustled about his makeshift kitchen as they ate, chopping up produce he’d brought in from the garden. He made a mean vegetable soup, he said. And Tony, much to Nomad’s quiet relief, had woken up hungry. He already looked to be at least ten or fifteen pounds underweight. Nomad didn’t want him losing more if they could help it.

“Not even a chuckle.” Tony shook his head, clucking his tongue. “Tough crowd. That’s okay. I can be patient. Let’s try another tactic. Boxers, or briefs? You seem like a briefs kind of guy.” 

Nomad sighed. “Tony…”

Tony scooped up another mouthful. He shifted back in his chair, one hand cradling his injured side. “Maybe it’s neither. Maybe you just go commando, I can dig that.”

A muscle in Nomad’s jaw was starting to twitch. He ground his teeth. “Would you _please_ just eat your food and _—"_

Tony cut Nomad off, pointing at him with his spoon. “Listen up, Chatty Cathy. You’re not calling the shots here, okay? Last time we talked, the godfather of all opioids cut our conversation short, but that was then, and your Silent Bob shtick is not working for me now.”

Nomad’s lips twitched despite himself. He snorted. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” 

Tony huffed, tossing his spoon into the empty bowl. “And _I’m_ glad one of us thinks this is a fucking _joke!”_

Nomad blinked. “You’re the one cracking the jokes here, Tony. Not me.”

Tony sputtered helplessly for a moment, waving his hands in front of him in clear exasperation. He froze mid-motion when the movement tugged at the wound in his abdomen, biting his lip, cradling his side. He breathed through it for a moment, not looking at Nomad.

There’d been something transparent, almost _desperate,_ about Tony’s badgering thus far, but his demeanor now had changed. He avoided Nomad’s eyes; hands clutched motionless in his lap. Something seemed wrong about it, that stillness. “You promised me.”

Nomad stiffened.

He said it in the smallest voice, still not looking at Nomad. And when Tony did turn his gaze on him, his brown eyes blazed with rage. “You _promised._ So, either you’re ready to give me some fucking answers, or there’s the door, pal. I don’t care how much you—” His breath hitched, and he cut himself off, face crumpling with something akin to anguish.

Nomad's heart twisted. “Tony…”

“I’m a billionaire genius stranded in the middle of nowhere with Gandalf’s lumberjack cousin, and a man who speaks in monosyllables, _and_ all my tech is fried, but you know what? I’ll figure it out. It’s what I do. Talcot, you got a radio?”

“’Course I do.” Talcot stopped what he was doing to turn toward them, still brandishing his chopping knife. “What do I look like, a caveman?”

“See? Who needs electricity?” Tony hummed, favoring Nomad with a smirk that looked forced. He braced both palms on the table, pushing himself up with the barest hint of a wince. “I’ve wasted enough time.”

“Now, hold on a minute.” Nomad scowled. “Just give me a chance to—"

Tony snagged the button-up shirt they’d managed to scrounge up for him from the back of his chair. Gingerly, he threaded one arm through the sleeve, pausing to brace himself before shrugging into the other, with a pained grimace. “You’ve had a lot of minutes, and I’m still not hearing words come out of your mouth.”

Nomad growled. Before he could think better of it, he was rounding the table, gripping Tony by both shoulders. “For God’s sake, will you shut your trap for _one_ second and let me think?”

Tony blinked once. Twice. _Shut your trap?_ he mouthed, not looking at Nomad. Shaking his head in befuddlement.

When it came to getting Tony to stop talking, Nomad was, evidently, woefully out of practice. He released Tony and paced a line in front of him, threading a hand through his hair. “This isn’t…easy. For me.” 

Tony studied Nomad, with narrowed eyes.

Nomad forced himself to look at Tony. _Really_ look, without seeing anyone else. He was young; almost painfully so. Couldn’t have been much older than thirty. Somewhere around six feet tall. Over two hundred pounds, but still thinner than he should be. His arms were lean and muscular. His hair, medium-brown and falling into his eyes. Big, brown, doe eyes. Earnest, and clear.

He was beautiful. Anyone could see that. Nomad was celibate by necessity, not blind.

But Tony was tired. Run down. His armor cracked and held together by pure Stark willpower, and God knew what else. Nomad understood that. He could relate. And he realized, with a jolt, that there was little he wouldn’t do to help him put it back together again.

Tony’s shoulders slumped. He jerked out of Nomad’s grip, propping his chin on his hand. The ire seemed to drain out of him as he watched, and he quirked a brow at Nomad, expectantly. _Well, go on. What are you waiting for?_

At long last, Nomad had his attention. And with sudden, frightening clarity, he realized he had no idea what to say.

He traveled the multi-verse to right the wrongs he’d committed. To prevent the brutal civil war that had twisted him into something so perverse and ugly, he could murder his best friend for ‘the greater good.’

_It wasn’t worth it._

He’d wanted to tell Tony that. Sobbed the words over his corpse, long after the body was cold, and the coffin, buried. He’d sat there, long after the mourners went home, countless hours before. Steve Rogers sat there by his headstone all night.

He’d never left.

Nomad swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. Wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He had to say _something._ Anything _._

He couldn’t find the words.

When he looked up, he expected to see an impatient Tony. Fiery. Demanding an explanation that was long overdue. Instead, all he found was quiet understanding, and somehow, that was worse. It made Nomad feel naked. Vulnerable.

He’d known dozens of Tony Starks. Done what he could for them, from a safe distance. He’d never let any of them get too close. _This_ was why. That intent, blue-eyed gaze had always been able to strip Nomad bare. Break down every defense he’d ever had. Leave him weak in the knees, without even trying.

Tony reached out, took his chin in his hand. It wasn’t a tender touch – just this side of forceful. His scrutiny was shrewd. Piercing. “You’re not lying to me.” It wasn’t a question.

“No.” Slowly, carefully, Nomad shook his head. “No lies. I swear.”

“That bullshit you were spewing about being from another world.” Tony rubbed a hand over his face. Huffed, incredulous. “You’re actually Steve Rogers. Aren’t you?”

Nomad choked on a laugh that was appallingly close to a sob. “I used to be.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed at the words. He released him slowly and sat back in his chair, eyes never leaving Nomad’s face. There was no anger there, but contemplation? Certainly. “You’re not being cryptic on purpose. You really believe that.”

Nomad shut his eyes for one long, painful moment. He gripped the bridge of his nose. “It’s the truth.”

Tony continued to watch Nomad, with those soft, knowing eyes. As it turned out, they were no less discerning brown than they’d ever been _blue._ His lips twitched –his smile, grim. “How did you lose him?”

Nomad jerked, as if he’d been slapped. He gazed back at Tony, wide eyed.

Tony inclined his head, answering the unspoken question threatening to spill from Nomad’s lips. “You look at me like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Nomad released a chuckle – breathless, humorless. “Suppose you’d know something about that.” He didn’t say it to be cruel. Wasn’t trying to dig the barbs in any deeper than they already were.

Tony scoffed, like he understood. He held his smile, though the edges of it shook. “I guess we’re both talking to dead men, aren’t we?” He averted his eyes, chewed on his lip.

Nomad smiled fondly. It was endearing somehow, to find a nervous tick. Something that set Tony apart; from _all_ of his counterparts, even after so many years. It helped Nomad see him as his own person. Visual signs of discomfort from his Tony had been very few and far between. He certainly never displayed them involuntarily. Or at least, if he had, he hadn’t trusted Nomad enough to let his guard down.

Tony _had_ trusted the man whose dog tags he wore. Surely, he had, if he’d loved him enough to marry him. It was the kind of easy, thoughtless loyalty one might only show to the people who loved them most. And he knew it wasn’t for him. Knew the man who’d earned that trust was dead and buried.

It wasn’t fair for Nomad to look at Tony and see the man he’d wronged. The man he’d loved and lost before he’d ever had him. He deserved better. He deserved…

“I killed him.”

Nomad wasn’t sure he’d meant to say it. He _heard_ himself say it, from a distance, and snapped his mouth shut, feeling the color drain from his face.

Whatever Tony was expecting Nomad to say, it clearly hadn’t been that. He choked, staring back at him in stunned befuddlement. “…come again?”

“You heard right.” Nomad’s voice shook on the words. “I killed him.”

How strange. The very act that made up everything Nomad was. And yet, this was the first time he could ever recall saying it.

Something flickered in Tony’s eyes—an unidentifiable emotion, there and gone again before Nomad could pin it down.

Nomad braced for impact. Would Tony scream? Cry? Punch him in the face? All of the above? Surely, it couldn’t be an _easy_ thing to hear. He was still staring at Nomad. Gaping with incredulous disbelief.

Then, he laughed.

It burst from his lips, a hysterical edge to the sound. And Nomad watched, bewildered. Surely, he wasn’t seeing this. Wasn’t hearing it. But there was nothing to mistake. Tony laid his head down on the table...and laughed. He _laughed_ and laughed. Each sound a little _madder,_ a little shriller than the last.

If there was one thing he hadn’t been expecting, it was laughter. For an instant, Nomad didn’t even _want_ an explanation. He was angry _._ God almighty, had he finally snapped? Had this been the final straw, to break whatever tenuous grip Tony had on his sanity?

“This is rich.” Tony peered up at Nomad through a curtain of sweaty hair. He threw his head back, screaming up at a God neither one could see. “You’ve got a _fucked-up_ sense of humor, you know that?”

Nomad clenched his fists. “What on earth is the matter with you? What could possibly be…”

“Un-fucking believable.” Tony choked on a sob, covering his mouth with his hand. _“Fuck.”_ He was crying, shoulders shaking, tears dripping onto the tabletop.

Nomad was bewildered. He sat hesitantly in the chair next to Tony, utterly at a loss.

He dropped a hand onto Tony's shoulder, unsure if it would be welcome, but not knowing what else he could do. And if anything, it just made him cry _harder._ Tony leaned into it, grabbed Nomad’s hand by the wrist, and held it there. _Don’t let go. Don’t leave me, like this._

“Birds of a feather, pal.” Nomad could barely make Tony’s words out through the tears. “What a pair.”

“I don’t understand.” He had no context, but a cold suspicion was creeping up on Nomad. A maybe. A what _if._

“Well, go on.” Tony lifted his head, swiping angrily at the tears on his cheeks. “You first. How’d he die? Huh?” His voice was high-pitched, just a shade under hysterical. “How’d you kill him?”

“I…” The words died on Nomad’s tongue. Try as he might, he couldn’t force anything out.

“Did you chop off his head? Carve out his eyes? Did he go down, _screaming_ your name?” Tony shrugged Nomad’s hand off, a little too quickly. He jarred his healing ribs, hissing, curling into himself. “Ow. _Fuck…”_

“Calm down.” Nomad swallowed the bile that crawled up his throat. “For God’s sake…”

Tony slapped his thighs. “Yes, because anyone in the history of ever has calmed down when somebody told them to. And, I don’t have my _mood stabilizers,_ so it’s your lucky day! I don’t want to be _calm. Steve._ I want you to _answer me_! _”_

“I…” Nomad found himself faltering. Stammering, like a befuddled schoolboy. “We had a brutal war. A civil war…within the superhero community. Tony and I were on opposite sides.”

Tony laughed, hysteria creeping back in. “Yeah? What a coincidence! So did we, only, Steve and I were on the _same_ side.” Nomad watched him pace. “If he _hadn’t_ been by my side _,_ where he _always was_ , I wouldn’t have god damn killed him.”

Nomad’s heart clenched. He squeezed Tony’s shoulder. “Whatever happened, I’m sure you did everything you could.”

Tony growled his frustration. “That’s not a _euphemism,_ you _stupid fuck!”_ he spat _,_ anguish dripping from every syllable. “That’s not me, throwing myself on my sword.”

The room fell silent. Even Talcot had ceased his chopping, in the background. 

Tony’s head was bowed. His shoulders, shaking. His eyes were bright; the circles beneath them dark, and deep. His lips were pale, and bloodless. His cheeks, flushed.

A block of ice—more frigid than any ocean –lodged itself in Nomad’s chest.

“Don’t you get it?” Tony giggled, both hands clutching his hair by the fistful. “Do I need to spell it out into tiny words your brain can understand?”

His eyes were mad. They burned into Nomad. Through him, like little else could. He knew them. Used to see them every time he looked in the mirror. He didn’t have much use for mirrors, these days.

“I killed him,” Tony wept out the words.

And Nomad knew, with frightening certainty, that it wasn’t a paraphrase.

A metallic screech dragged his attention away.

Nomad startled. He spun quickly toward the sound in the doorway, shield in hand, almost before he’d even registered the presence of a threat.

A suit of armor stood waiting.

It was a twisted, decrepit thing. Singed around the edges. Red, gold, and silver, peering at them with soulless, glimmering red eyes. It seemed held together with little more than fire, brimstone, and unadulterated will. Nomad hadn’t a clue what he was looking at.

Why hadn’t he heard its approach? Had he been so blinded by raw emotion? Had he dropped his guard that easily?

“Shit.” Tony’s eyes were wide and frightened.

The creature – machine—tilted its head. It seemed to consider them for a moment. Took a jerking, shambling step forward, arms held at awkward angles at its sides. Nomad could see the circuitry peering through the cracks in its plating. Its right arm held high above its head, higher than its fellow on the left.

It tilted its head again. Zeroed in on the only working piece of tech worth mentioning in the room.

It zeroed in on Tony.

…and lunged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, boy, my first cliffhanger! Who's excited? Are you excited? 
> 
> Stay tuned, kids! It's gonna be a wild ride. 
> 
> \- Saber


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than I wanted it to, but I got hit with wicked writer's block. Also, I have a gallbladder than needs to be removed. What can I say, it's been an enlightening few weeks xD.
> 
> Welcome back, and as always: enjoy the chapter.

Tony had just enough time to activate his gauntlet watch and fire a repulsor blast before the mechanized creature reached him. The shot was sloppy and off-center, but it was enough to knock the thing off course. He clipped it on the right shoulder, knocking it back into Steve’s waiting left hook.

And what a _wicked_ left hook it was.

Tony watched, dumbfounded, gauntlet raised for the next shot, and he almost _laughed._ He wasn’t sure whether he should be impressed, or annoyed. The mother fucker had a shield in his other hand – one with an arc reactor built into the center of it, what the _fuck –_ and his first instinct was to punch a solid, sentient hunk of metal in the _face?_

What even _was_ this guy, anyway? 

The creature stumbled and lost its footing under the bone-crushing blow. It looked like it was barely standing to begin with. Like Frankenstein’s monster, in mechanized form. One gauntlet red, one silver. A chest plate painted red and gold. It was a patchwork of colors, stages, and tech—a mausoleum of different suit models, retired or discarded.

Tony blinked. Stared. That was _exactly_ what they were. Different suits slapped together. Suits Tony was positive had been broken down in his vault before he’d locked it and thrown away the key.

The creature moved to crawl over the table, tilting its head at Tony. There were gaps in the metal. Parts that appeared to flicker and melt before his eyes as it struggled to hold cohesion. Nanobots. Or something like them.

_Nanobots._

Son of a _bitch._

Tony’s blood ran cold. His gauntlet hand wobbled despite himself, and he raised his other one to steady it, shaking the sweat out of his eyes.

No. This was not a thing. This was _not_ happening, with a capital ‘Not.’

Tony had flipped the kill switch. He’d flipped the kill switch before he left. Tossed the project’s remains into the vault and got the hell out of dodge. Dodge being his house in Malibu, where he’d been living. Hiding, if you asked Rhodey.

“ _Consume…”_ The creature reached for Tony’s chest—for the arc reactor _—_ with a disjointed arm. It struggled to crawl away from Steve, but he was faster. The warrior surged forward. He grabbed it by the ankle and yanked, slamming it down on the floor with a knee on its back, and the edge of the shield pressed into its neck.

Its movements were erratic, jerky. Like a video that never stopped buffering, or a lagging feedback loop. And, even immobilized, it seemed drawn to Tony. It struggled against Steve’s grip, tried to turn its head. One gauntlet clawing ineffectually at the wooden floor.

Tony choked back a laugh.

“ _Consuuuume…”_

The word was an eerie, mechanized whine. Guttural. Scarcely an octave above a growl.

Tony had created a monster.

Again.

Steve—not knowing what he was looking at, and apparently not giving a damn edgewise—shoved his shield into its neck, severing its head. The red glow of its eyes faded like a dying star, and after another moment of grating, half-formed words, it fell silent.

The nanobots melted, scattering like mist. And with nothing to hold them together, the other battered, bastardized pieces of armor clattered to the floor.

Slowly, Tony lowered his gauntlet. He couldn’t bring himself to put it away. To collapse it back into the unassuming wristwatch it pretended to be. He stood silent, breathing erratically. Paralyzed with horror.

Steve rose to his feet, metal boots clanking heavily on the wooden floor. His eyes were grim. “I think it’s time you told me what’s happening here, Tony. In detail. This is not a game.”

Tony’s chest tightened, cheeks burning with indignation. “Thanks, you sanctimonious fucking _prick,_ I didn’t know that. I still have no idea why you’re even here Steve, _I-Used-To-Be_ , Rogers, but this is my mess, not yours. Go back where you came from. I dug this hole. I’ll crawl my way out of it.”

Steve sighed. He pressed his lips into a thin, tight line. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I don’t care how you meant it.” Tony gathered up the few items that looked useful. Snatched a duffel bag. Grabbed various, assorted medical supplies from the table and stuffed them inside. “I don’t need your help. I need to _fix this._ _”_ A horrible thought occurred to him. Jolted him awake, like a bucket of ice water. “How long was I out?”

“You’ve been in and out for about a week, give or take a few hours.” Steve was watching him carefully. Gauging Tony’s reactions. Fuck him, anyway. He was too busy not panicking to worry about Captain Man right now. “Should we be expecting more company?”

“Oh, God. Rhodey,” Tony groaned, pacing, threading his fingers through his hair. “He’s probably mobilized half the _planet_ by now. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Slow down. You’re not making any sense.” Steve softened his tone. “Hey, be careful, you’re gonna tear your—”

“Are you still here?” Tony whipped around, pulling at the stitches in his side, just as Steve had been about to mention, the bastard. _Ow._ He swallowed a whimper, cradling his side. He really _didn’t_ want to tear stitches again. His voice came out faint when he spoke again, thready with pain. “Look. I appreciate you helping me out, or whatever. But this isn’t your problem. I don’t know what brought you here, and you clearly don’t want to tell me—”

“I killed him.”

Tony snapped his mouth shut. Okay. Story time.

Steve sighed. Sank heavily into one of the chairs surrounding the table. His eyes were clear. Clouded with equal parts regret and conviction. “Catastrophe happened. An explosion. We won the day, but…a lot of people died. Kids. Innocents. The people wanted someone to blame. They looked to us. The growing superhuman community, and the havoc we wrought. And they started wondering if we were doing more harm than good. The government had already been toying with ideas. This gave them an excuse to push the envelope.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. Paused, as if to gather himself before taking a breath.

“They wanted regulation. The Superhuman Registration Act, they called it. It would have required all of us to have our names in a database. Secret identities would have been exposed, whether people wanted them to be or not. And I was adamantly opposed to it. That wasn’t freedom to me. It was subjugation. Tony advocated for it. Said we could use a governing body. That we should be subject to a set of limitations, same as anyone else.”

Tony sat carefully in the chair opposite Steve’s. He rolled the thought over in his head.

The risks would outweigh the benefits. The policy was too black and white, same as the Inhuman Registration Act had been. There was no gray area, no wiggle room. And being under the government’s thumb? Hunting down _kids?_ What good could possibly come from that?

But he had to admit, he could see himself taking the opposite stance, under the right circumstances. He wasn’t against regulation, in and of itself. Even if the thought of having to side against Steve made Tony’s stomach churn, but if it was for the greater good? If Tony genuinely believed it was the right thing to do, well…

In the end, maybe other Tony was the one who had it right, regardless.

His Steve was still alive. Even if he wasn’t around to see it.

Tony swallowed hard, aware that it was ‘his’ turn. An answer for an answer. It seemed only fair.

“We, uh…had one of those too. Sort of. There was a nation. A floating island, called Attilan. A race of super-powered people lived there, called the Inhumans. One day, the bad guys tried to take over the world. You know, like a normal Tuesday. And to stop them, we had to unleash a phenomenon called the Terrigen Mist. It awakened new, dormant powers in people around the globe. Created new Inhumans. Citizens were scared. The government invoked The Inhuman Registration Act to shut them up. The World Security Counsel wanted the Avengers to enforce it. Slap trackers on everyone's necks. We refused.”

Steve was the one who seemed hesitant this time. “And the Avengers were…”

“Steve and I…” Tony smiled nostalgically, even as he felt the vise tighten around his heart. “We co-lead together. Hawkeye. Widow. Thor. Hulk. Falcon. Just the seven of us. The good old days.”

A smile flickered on Steve’s lips. As nostalgic as it was sad.

It was fleeting. The look that replaced it was hard, and so _cold,_ it almost gave Tony whiplash. Steve's expression steeled.

“Everything came to a head. Our friends picked sides. There were those who stayed neutral, but they were the minority. And I…” Steve swallowed convulsively. Squeezed his eyes shut.

Tony was surprised to find himself reaching out. He rested his hand on top of Steve’s, stroking his knuckles with a thumb.

The warrior flicked his gaze up to Tony’s, his eyes wet, and he swallowed hard. Turned his hand over to thread their fingers together. “We fought. And when I came back to myself, I’d crushed his skull.”

Hearing that admission drove the breath from Tony. He wasn’t expecting the truth to be so blunt, though he wasn’t sure why. It should have been disturbing, to look down at their joined hands after that. To know that Steve had crushed the breath out of him, in another life. Another world. He should have been disgusted. Afraid.

Instead, Tony stared across the table. At Steve’s dark, desolate eyes, and saw a kindred spirit. In the worst possible way.

“It was so stupid, Tony.” Steve gripped his hand tighter, his words hushed. “It...wasn’t worth it.”

Tony got the impression that out of everything they’d said to each other thus far, that had been the hardest to admit.

The warrior continued. “So many, dead. So much destruction, wrought by the hands of people who’d claimed to be heroes. We tore the world apart. Why?”

Tony was afraid to speak. This was the most he’d ever heard the taciturn warrior say. Tony had known him for all of three hours, true. But he got the impression that Steve had never spoken this aloud to anyone. Not at length.

“Nothing made sense after the war. I didn’t know what else to do, so eventually, I went back to Tony’s lab. What was left of it. I thought I’d have to break in, but he never changed my override codes.” Steve’s breath hitched. His tone was desolate, raw with disbelief, though his eyes were dry. Tony wasn’t sure Steve knew how to cry. He could appreciate that.

“No,” Tony kept his words soft. Nodded, carefully. “I don’t suppose he would have.”

“I stole his life away. It seemed only right that I should do something with it. Beyond Captain America. Beyond Steve Rogers, whatever the _hell_ he was worth.”

“Your tech.” Tony’s eyes burned, sympathetic with grief. “It was his.”

Steve choked out a laugh. Sharp, humorless. “I found it, in his armory. He must have made it for me. _Before_. Why the hell would he have kept it? I don’t know. I wish to God I did.”

“I can tell you that. I’d have done anything to protect Steve.” Tony gave him a shaky smile. “I don’t think there’s a me anywhere who’d say different.”

Steve seemed overcome at the words. He squeezed his eyes shut again. Avoided Tony’s gaze.

Tony gave him a moment to recover. Needed it himself.

“This…time travel.” Tony began after a time; scientist brain already engaging. “Universe travel, I should say. Reed Richards was going on about a multi-verse theory a few years back. It seemed plausible, but I thought he was full of shit.”

Steve chuckled – a harsh, almost startled sound, as if he were surprised to find it springing from his lips. “I’ve seen dozens of worlds. They don’t understand what I’m trying to teach them. They’re not ready for the truth.” His voice rang with conviction. His words gaining strength. “They’d rather destroy each other, time and time again. I intervene where I can. Help them see the error of their ways.”

“Why would you expect that to work?” Tony tugged his hand away, narrowing his eyes. “They’re not gonna listen to you. They don’t know you from a hole in the wall.”

The warrior gritted his teeth. “I have to try. I understand something they don’t. A truth Steve Rogers would never have _dreamed_ of.” He all but _spat_ out the name, like venom from a rattle snake.

Now that Tony was looking closer, he could see that pieces of Steve’s armor were scuffed. Over the years, he had to have taught himself how to handle the more basic fixes and armor maintenance. Enough to keep his tech functional, to be sure. But it looked like it needed some love, and Tony’s fingers itched to provide.

He could study it. Learn from it, improve upon it.

Tony thought about how he might feel if someone offered to ‘fix’ his own valuables. If they so much as _touched_ the dog tags around his neck.

Might be a hard sell. For now, he’d move on to safer ground.

“I asked who you were, but you never really answered me. If not Steve, what do I call you? What do you call _yourself_?”

Steve—perhaps Not-Steve after all –smiled, grim. “I am an instrument of justice. The Civil Warrior. Nothing more.”

It shouldn’t have been funny. It _wasn’t_ funny, but Tony couldn’t help the laughter bubbling from his lips. It escaped in a harsh burst, choked, before he managed to bite it off again.

The ‘Civil Warrior’ raised an eyebrow, seeming more bemused than angry, but Tony didn’t want to push his luck. He covered his mouth with his hand, snorting. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just…God, that’s so _strong-sad_. Is that what you call yourself? Like, in your head? That’s a lot of syllables. Seriously, I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”

To Tony’s quiet relief, his jabbering actually startled a laugh out of Steve. He smiled; that tiny, hesitant smile. The one that said his lips couldn’t remember what one felt like. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered, voice painfully fond.

God. That hurt more than anger ever could have.

Tony’s eyes burned. He exhaled a shaky breath, swallowing hard. “I’m not him.”

It seemed a cruel reminder, but the Civil Warrior only smiled. His eyes, soft.

“Neither am I.”

It hit Tony like a punch to the gut. It was all he could do not to recoil at the words. He couldn’t bring himself to form a reply. What was there to say?

Steve reached across the table, and Tony found himself crossing the remaining distance before he could think better of it. Clasping their fingers together, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“We could get to know each _other,_ ” the warrior dared to say. His voice, hesitant. “If you want.”

Tony wanted. It scared the hell out of him.

This was a bad idea. What he knew of this man could barely fill a thimble. He didn’t need to get attached. To let the Civil Warrior’s guilt complex draw him into whatever crusade he was waging. It was too late for Tony. He’d already hit rock bottom. Let someone else benefit from his self-sacrificing bullshit.

“The war is over.” A tear escaped despite Tony’s best efforts. He swiped at it with his other hand, irritably. “We won. I lost. There’s nothing for you here. You can’t help me.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” The warrior’s voice was even. His grip, strong and sure. “Please.”

Tony swallowed hard. He wanted to say _yes._ He wanted someone there to hold his God damned _hand_ , and fuck if that didn't pain him to admit.

Tony’s life was a joke, and he had no one to blame but himself. He let his life atrophy away. Dug a grave next to Steve’s and laid down to die. He’d cut himself off. Pushed everyone away. Dived into work and a bottle of liquor and sunk straight to the bottom.

The Avengers tried. His friends tried, but you couldn’t help someone who didn’t want to be helped. You couldn’t force a person to live in a world they’d given up on.

That didn’t stop Rhodey from trying. That was probably the only reason Tony was still alive. His friend was a stubborn bastard. As stubborn as they came. Stubborn enough to throw away his career to take a job in Afghanistan. To endure a year of the most toxic, self-destructive spiral Tony had ever subjected anyone to. Stubborn enough to break into Tony’s lab, scoop him up off the floor, and rush him to the hospital to have his stomach pumped.

Tony still remembered what he’d said to him when he woke. Rhodey watching him, because they didn’t trust him to be left alone. _“You should have let me die!”_ he’d screamed. _“Why didn’t you just let me die?”_

Tony didn’t think he’d ever apologized for that.

He wasn’t in a good place now, either. Not by a long shot. But he was getting better every day, and he was on stable enough ground to know he’d been a terrible person. An even _worse_ friend.

But Rhodey stuck around. Even when he shouldn’t have, because he’d wanted to help Tony. He only ever wanted to help.

Who was Tony to deny this man with his husband’s face? It wasn’t fair, to think of him that way. The Civil Warrior was his own person, and he wanted to help, too. God only knew why. But Tony wanted it. _So_ badly, he could taste it.

Yes. Tony had done this to himself. But, he was _so_ tired of being alone. Of jumping at shadows. Of being afraid.

That was the problem right there, wasn’t it? Tony had been _so_ afraid, for _so_ long. And when he was afraid, bad things happened. People died. He created murder bots.

Again.

He was in over his head. Tony’d been ready to admit that, even before he’d blown his latest suit sky high. That was why he’d locked the Malibu house down and sent out a distress call. He’d thought he’d managed to contain it.

The autonomous terminator broken up on the floor proved him wrong. Tony was wrong a lot these days.

Fuck, he really needed to call Rhodey. He was surprised he hadn’t torn through the door with a gaggle of Avengers by now. He swallowed hard.

He could leave here, of course. His wounds were healed up enough that he could manage on his own.

But, he didn’t _want_ to. Was that so wrong?

Tony squeezed his eyes shut. Forced back the tears.

“Yeah,” he choked. “Yeah. Okay.”

This time, when Steve smiled, it seemed the easiest one yet. “You won’t regret it.”

“ _You_ might.” Tony rubbed his face with his hands. “Oh, _God,_ I fucked up. I don’t know what went wrong. I don’t understand—"

“Slow down. Start from the beginning. What are we dealing with here?” The warrior’s gaze flicked back to the discarded metal parts on the floor. “What was that thing?”

“Another monster. I’m good at those.” Tony’s chest was tight with anxiety. He choked out a dry chuckle, breathing through the churning nausea.

The Civil Warrior took a breath. “Words, Tony. What am I looking at?”

“My hubris.” Tony smiled a humorless smile. “Technovore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition, exposition...
> 
> Uh-oh. What's happening with the terminator on the floor? Time will tell <3


	6. Chapter 6

Nomad was happy to be Tony’s errand boy. It was a damn sight better than watching him gasp for air.

The skies were clear today: cloudless and blue. Long, sloping green plains stretched out beneath his feet, mountains reaching skyward on the horizon. Sharp, lofty peaks, as far as the eye could see. He paused, tilted his head – fully armored, once again – and he allowed himself that. Took a moment to breathe.

He’d like to draw this, he thought. The impulse took him by surprise. Nomad couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a sketchbook. Or even _owned_ one.

He could recall what an artist’s passion felt like, if he focused hard enough. It had been the only indulgence he afforded himself before the war. Wasting a quarter on a sketchbook seemed a frivolous thing when you couldn’t afford heat. But sometimes, he ignored that gnawing, guilty feeling in the pit of his gut, aching to do _something_ that made his soul sing. He shelled out that quarter and sat by the window in his drafty Brooklyn apartment, clutching the pages tight. Drawing the bluebirds flitting on the light posts, or the children playing in the streets.

Steve Rogers had been a wisp of a man then. Sickly and weak. But he’d felt more alive with a pencil in his hand than Nomad had in years trudging through the sands of time, wearily eyeing a universe of marvels with monochrome eyes.

That skyline must really be something at sunset.

Nomad shook his head, brushing the thought away. It was a trivial thought, reserved for a different time. He picked his way cautiously through the landscape, retracing his and Tony’s steps from the night they’d met, a week before. If _met_ was the right word.

He couldn’t say he wasn’t frustrated with Tony. He'd told Nomad precious little about Technovore –said it was anti-virus software. Then, he’d clammed up and sent him off to dig up _scrap_.

Technovore. Nomad knew the name. He wasn’t sure yet how it would come into play, but he didn’t have a good feeling about it. He couldn’t put any sort of plan into place until he had all the facts. That, more than anything, made him uneasy.

Slowly but surely, Nomad came across pieces of Tony’s armor scattered around the landscape, burnt nearly beyond recognition. Tony had blown it by way of self-destruct, he said, and most, if not all of the circuitry would be fried.

 _Nomad’s_ tech was for the most part, designed with defense in mind. He had repulsors, for offense. His helmet had a H.U.D., with a barebones array. He had a targeting computer. A readout of his vitals. He could measure someone else’s, assuming time and circumstance allowed for it. He had coms, although they functioned on an inter-dimensional frequency.

Tony seemed reasonably sure the Avengers were looking for him, although, he said it with a look in his eye that Nomad could only interpret as _nauseous._ And he was confident he could recalibrate Nomad’s com as a means of contacting them, but he didn’t, _“…need you breathing down my neck. Jesus, go find something to do!”_

Nomad wasn’t sure if Tony actually thought anyone would be able to salvage something from his sloppy seconds, or if the other man had just been looking for an excuse to get rid of him. Either way, he’d sent Nomad out the door with a vague hand wave and an indignant request to collect the suit fragments. Part of him had wanted to protest, but he could see that Tony was on edge. If he needed space, Nomad could give him that. Within reason, of course.

A flicker of trepidation crawled up Nomad’s spine. He trusted Talcot enough that he was confident he wouldn’t slide a knife between Tony’s ribs while his back was turned, but it was hard not to worry. Tony was clearly no wilting flower, but he was still hurt. Vulnerable. It was up to Nomad to take down any son-of-a-bitch who took advantage of that.

The sooner he got back to Tony, the better.

The task took little more than an hour. Nomad was as thorough as he could stomach, doing a circuit in a mile-wide radius from the blast site. He had a rucksack full of red and gold scrap metal for his trouble. Tony should be happy with that.

He picked his way back toward town. It had been abandoned recently, if the wear and tear on the buildings and street signs was any indication. It seemed to have been little more than a village. It had a tavern. A general store. A barber shop. If Nomad closed his eyes, and focused hard, he could almost imagine a shootout in the town square. Like one of those old westerns he’d seen. His Tony always got a kick out of westerns. Thought they were the funniest thing in the world.

Nomad wondered what sorts of movies _this_ Tony liked.

He made his way back toward Talcot’s clinic. The old man had been good to them, and Nomad was grateful. But for all that he loved to talk, he’d managed to tell them surprisingly little. Anytime Nomad tried to dig deeper into his history, he steered the subject deftly in another direction, and that hadn’t escaped his notice. At any rate, the codger didn’t seem to be hiding any malicious intent, and that was good enough for now. He’d press the issue when it seemed prudent.

When he reached the clinic, Nomad knocked three times on the doorjamb, in the sequence they’d settled on, before entering. There was no one inside, which he thought little of.

Until he saw the sluggish, droplet trail of blood, leading out the back door.

Nomad stared down at it, dumbstruck.

There were plenty of reasonable explanations for this. He didn’t need to jump to the worst possible conclusion. He swallowed hard. Took a few steps into the room.

“Tony?” His voice filtering through the helmet, was steady. Mechanical.

No answer.

Now that he’d moved closer, Nomad could see a puddle of blood that had been obscured by the table. It wasn’t a _lot._ But it was enough to make him anxious.

Tony wasn’t answering him.

Throat tight, feet pounding into the hard-wood floor, Nomad was moving before it even registered. Tony had been officially under his charge for all of two hours, and Nomad had already _lost_ him?

He reached the back door and all but wrenched it off its hinges, heart in his throat…

…and found the man in question, sitting on a stool by the well, holding his bloody hand under a water pump. He seemed otherwise unharmed, glancing up at Nomad with a raised eyebrow.

Nomad _sagged_ with relief.

After a time, Tony scoffed, lip curling with annoyance. “Are you just gonna stand there gawking?” He flexed his hand under the spray, wincing. Palm cut diagonally down the center. “I should warn you. I charge by the hour.”

Nomad shook his head. Somehow, his voice was steady. “Stay there.”

As if on autopilot, he trudged back inside, snatching up a clean rag, antiseptic, and a roll of gauze. With little fanfare, he hurried back outside, sparing a moment to unlatch one of his gauntlets before taking Tony’s bloody hand in his.

Nomad held the rag to his palm, pressing down hard to stop the bleed.

Tony hissed. “Geez, warn a guy.”

“Sorry.” Nomad lifted the rag to peer at the wound. It was a clean cut. Didn’t look deep. “Exacto knife?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Tony’s words were indignant, though Nomad didn’t think he was imagining the red tips of his ears.

Nomad scowled. “You’re still shaky, Tony. You shouldn’t push yourself so hard.”

“Who’s pushing? I was sitting in a _chair,_ ” Tony huffed. “My hand slipped, what do you want from me?”

“Just…be more careful.” His tone was brusque, but his heart was pounding, slowly crawling its way down from his throat.

He shook his head, angry at himself. This was ridiculous. Tony was _fine._

Lost in the tangle of his thoughts, Nomad took his time cleaning the wound. Tied the bandages around Tony’s hand; just a fraction too tight.

 _"Ow,_ rude," Tony admonished, with a wince. “So _worked_ up, O' Mighty One. What's the matter? Worried about little old me?”

Nomad squeezed his eyes shut, immeasurably glad, not for the first time, that his expression was hidden behind the mask. 

“Yes,” he muttered, gruff. Sincere.

Tony blinked haltingly. He seemed taken aback. Quietly stunned.

His brown eyes, amber in the light of the setting sun, gradually softened, and Tony smiled at Nomad. Slowly, with such genuine warmth, it made his breath catch. He reached up under Nomad’s chin, where the helmet latches were, and quirked a brow. A question in his gaze.

Nomad's answer was just as silent, just as well understood, and he held his breath. Let Tony slip his fingers into the crevasse and trigger the release. With a hiss, the helmet detached.

Tony set it on the ground next to them. Brushed a lock of hair out of Nomad’s eyes, almost absently.

 _“There_ you are.” Tony smiled gently, as if he understood. “And here I am. Still kickin’.”

Nomad felt a wave of affection for him. So strong, it _ached._

“See?” Tony flexed his hand experimentally. He wiggled his fingers. “All five digits, present and accounted for.”

A lump rose in Nomad’s throat.

He knew what this meant. He was attached now. It was too late to turn back. He couldn’t abandon Tony. Couldn't leave him, even if he’d wanted to.

He _didn’t._ Want to, that was. But somehow, having that control taken away was its own brand of fear.

He almost wished he could make himself regret it.

“Come on, it’s cold as fuck out here.” Tony stood up. He tugged on Nomad’s arm, coaxing him to his feet, and he went willingly. Perhaps a bit slowly, because Tony paused. He glanced back at him, with a thoughtful frown. “Steve?”

The name should have tasted like rotten flesh. Should have curdled his stomach, like sour milk.

It still didn't belong to him. Didn't settle beneath his breast and make itself at home. But, it didn't shiver or shake. Didn't inspire an anger within him that burned him up inside. What that it, then? Had this man undone _years_ of control, in the space of a heartbeat? Little more than a day? Of course not, but he'd set something in motion, to be sure. Was Nomad so impressionable? Was he going to let it happen, undeterred?

Tony mistook Nomad’s silence for displeasure. He crossed his arms over his chest. The only armor he had, without his famed red and gold. “Okay, _used_ to be Steve, fine. But you have to give me something. If you think I’m calling you the god damned Civil Warrior, unironically, you’re—"

“You can say it.”

Tony's eyebrows rose so far, they disappeared into his hairline. “ _Really?_ ” he drawled, incredulous.

Nomad nodded. “It’s okay if it’s you.”

He realized, with a jolt, that he meant it.

Tony wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think that’s how it’s supposed to work, pal.”

Nomad shrugged. Wondered at that flicker of warmth beneath the unease. “I don’t mind.”

Tony looked highly suspicious. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Nomad wasn’t in the habit of examining his emotions. He took them at face value. Didn’t have the time or energy for much else. The world was black, white, and shades of gray. Had been for so long, he scarcely remembered anything else.

His friend –the Tony Nomad had known— had been emotional, in his way. Smooth, suave, with a quick wit, and a will like iron. He had an easy warmth about him. A genuine kindness, that made even a relic like Nomad feel welcome in the twenty-first century. They’d had an easy rapport from the start, the two of them.

He missed it, like an amputated limb.

Tony had been fun. Generous. Brave. Handsome as all get out. His presence was magnetic. Meteoric, but he could be distant. Cold.

Everyone wanted a piece of Tony Stark, and that was exactly what they got. A piece, broken from the puzzle. A fragment severed from the whole. There were parts of him he never let anyone see. No one person would ever have a full picture.

This Tony seemed quite a bit like him, in many ways. He wore his wit like armor. Held his cards close to his chest. Had that selfsame passionate conviction and fiery brilliance. But there was vulnerability in his shadowed brown eyes. Wounded, and raw. He wore his torment for all the world to see, throwing out quips like daggers. Forging his pain into a weapon and brandishing it proudly.

There was a soft earnestness beneath the bravado. An openness, the likes of which his Tony might have been appalled by. It was brave, to be open.

Tony was still staring at Nomad. Pressing his lips into a thin, tight line. “Look, I’m not the paragon of wellness and mental health, but…you know what? Never mind. But if you’re ever in the market for a therapist, I know a guy.”

Nomad huffed out a laugh. “Careful, I might take you up on that.”

Tony nodded sagely. He patted Nomad’s cheek. “You might want to.”

Nomad smiled ruefully. He turned to follow Tony inside, helmet tucked under his arm.

He wanted to know Tony. Wanted to know what made his soul sing. Wanted to know what his favorite color was, or if he liked leftover pizza cold. He wanted to know everything about him. That was dangerous.

But watching Tony work later that night, fiddling with his tech, falling asleep over his tools at the table, like a page out of his sketchbooks, Nomad thought he could be brave. Because he wasn’t Steve Rogers.

But he was more than _this_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We were overdue for soft. See. I can be nice. 
> 
> In all seriousness, I hope the shift wasn't too jarring. I don't want to dump every bit of information on you at once. Where's the fun in that? xD


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, it's been about a month, hasn't it? Sorry about that. Life, and so on, and so forth. I'm moving soon, so there's lots to square away there, and life is busy besides. But, I'll always make time for my craft. And, for all of you <3\. Thanks so much for being here, and as always, hope you enjoy.

James Rhodes stood at T’Challa’s right hand in the briefing room at the Avengers Compound, palms braced on the table. Avengers new and old sat slumped around it in various states of disarray, looking about as exhausted as Jim felt. Their faces were worn. Their clothes, dirty. Expressions grim. And after a fruitless week without results, they were all at the end of their frustrated ropes.

“Welcome back, my friends,” T’Challa began, after a heavy silence. “We all know why we are here. Widow, Hawkeye?”

“There’s not much to tell.” Natasha rose to her feet. “We scoured everything. The flagship. The Triskelion. S.H.I.E.L.D.’s entire fleet of tricarriers, and we found nothing. Even the surveillance footage is wiped clean.”

Carol scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fury doesn’t have any new insights?”

“Not unless you count, _‘our LMDs are gone and we think it’s all Tony Stark’s fault’._ ” Clint, who had remained seated, drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Same shit, different day.”

T’Challa twitched a regal eyebrow. “I assume he has no more evidence than he did the last time he shared that opinion?”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “He’s just blowing off steam. This isn’t Tony’s style, and Nick knows it. Everybody does.”

“Do we?” Sam Wilson –still outfitted in the falcon armor – interjected. He shot Jim an apologetic glance. “When is the last time most of us had a real conversation with him?”

Jim clenched his jaw. Pushed the instinctual anger down. “I’m in _regular_ contact with Tony. He’s hurting, but he’s trying. You guys have no room to judge him based on who he _was_. You don’t know who he _is_ now.”

“Whose fault is _that?”_ Clint slammed a hand on the table, surging to his feet. “We tried with him. It’s not _our_ fault he pickled himself with vodka. Are we sure he’s not face down in a ditch somewhere?”

Kamala Khan– her Miss Marvel costume rumpled –fiddled with her glove, eyes soft with sympathy. “That’s not fair. He’s hurting. He was just trying to—” She shrank back when Clint cut her off, jabbing a shaking finger in her face.

“He’s not the only one who was hurting! He—"

Carol leapt to her young teammate’s defense. She rounded the table, placing a hand on Clint's shoulder. “Don’t yell at Kamala. It’s not helping. And Tony _has_ been doing better. He’s almost six months sober. I know how hard that is. I’m proud of him.”

“Yeah, well. Not all of us are privileged enough to be graced by his presence,” Clint spat, his voice raw. “If he thinks Steve biting the dust means—”

“Clint.” Natasha’s voice was cold. Barely an octave above a whisper, but it stopped him dead. His face paled, reddened, and he looked away.

“Enough.” T’Challa’s regal tone was clipped with barely suppressed anger, impatience evident in the sharp curve of his brow. “Tony Stark is not on trial. If any one of you feels you cannot be productive to this investigation, please leave. You are Avengers. I expect you to act accordingly.”

Silence.

Jim gazed around the room at his teammates, new and old. Studied their faces. Natasha, grim but blank. T’Challa, bedecked in that mantle of command he never seemed to shed. Carol, her face set. Sam --sad, but determined. Kamala, tears in her eyes. Even Clint, absent the anger, just looked wrecked, and Jim tried not to think harshly of him. Of any of them. They were all feeling –and dealing—in their own ways. And they were still here despite that, with a single purpose.

Find their friend.

Help him.

T’Challa waited another beat before continuing, panther claws stretched out across the tabletop. “Thank you. Falcon, what are your findings?”

Sam stood to address them, sunglasses balanced on top of his head. “I examined all of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s systems, and there are signs of tampering. Lines of code I don’t recognize. I’d almost call it a virus. It seems to be _attacking_ the main frame. More data gets wiped every hour. None of their techs can figure it out, and I’m kinda stumped, too. It’s sophisticated code. I can’t understand how it managed to infect their entire army of LMDs, but that looks like what’s happening here. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a focused attack. Takes control of some things and obliterates others. That kind of direction isn’t mindless. Something or someone’s gotta be behind it. Those LMDs didn’t just get up and walk out on their own.”

T’Challa tipped his chin in agreement. “Does the code seem like something Stark might have created?”

Sam bit his lip, uncertain. “Yes and no. It’s familiar, but…warped. Whatever it is, I don’t think Tony would have done this. Not on purpose.”

“I concur.” T’Challa tilted a brow at Jim, his question silent, but understood. Jim obliged him, jaw clenched.

“He was working on something big. New suits, he said. A whole legion of them. He wouldn’t tell me much, but he really threw himself into it. You already know Tony’s been staying in Malibu. Something happened. Whatever it was, it wiped J.A.R.V.I.S. off the map, or at least shut him down. Nothing I did made it respond. The whole lab was locked down. The armory. Everything. My override codes were useless.”

“There were signs of a struggle,” Carol interjected. She’d been mostly silent. A stalwart companion through all this chaos, and Jim was grateful beyond words. “Tony left in a hurry. He left a trail for us –set off a distress signal—but it tapers off over the Mohave Desert. That’s either an unlucky fluke, or somebody doesn’t want us to find him, because he’s not there. Nowhere near it.”

“If Hulk and Thor weren’t M.I.A., we could have our resident Asgardian ask Heimdall to search, but…” Natasha shrugged, arching a cynical brow. “Guess that’d be too easy.”

No one wanted to say it. No one even wanted to think it, not even Rhodey. _Especially_ not him. But it permeated the air, like the heaviest elephant in any room. Much as they didn’t want it out in the open, it needed to be there. Sam was the one who finally dared broach the subject.

“Do we think Ultron has anything to do with this?”

If Jim thought the silence before was heavy, this one was six feet of dirt upon their coffin.

“We have seen nothing to imply that,” T’Challa interjected, uncharacteristically hesitant. “But we cannot afford to rule it out. If anyone sees or hears suggestion of him, I want to know about it. He is a master of disguise. We know this. We cannot be taken by surprise again.”

Clint’s voice was subdued. His eyes, averted. “I can’t think of anybody else who’d want an army of LMDs with Tony’s name all over them.”

“I could feel Ultron in my mind when he took over, that time we were all split up.” Sam’s face was hard. “He thinks we’re all beneath him. It’s not personal. He’s just better than we are, in every way. He doesn’t ‘feel’ anything for humans, except maybe contempt. But he _hates_ Tony. I mean, _really_ hates him.”

Ultron had always gone out of his _way_ to hurt Tony. They all knew it, Jim most of all. He rubbed his face with his hands. Banished memories of a body, crumpled beneath a work bench in Tony's lab.

_‘Why didn’t you just let me die?’_

“Hasn’t that bucket of bolts done enough?” Kamala’s voice –soft, tearful. “What is his _problem?_ Doesn’t he have anyone else to annoy?” The words themselves were designed to be flippant, but Kamala’s heart was big, and her compassion, boundless. A tear streaked down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

T’Challa sighed – a rare lapse of control. Though his eyes were dark, hard as flints, there were circles beneath them. A sure sign of fatigue.

Their stalwart leader had been a pillar of strength for them to look to in these troubled times. He’d been the right choice to step up to the plate after the war, particularly with Shuri Wakanda’s new queen, and him free to focus on the Avengers. With Steve gone, and Tony fallen to pieces…

Well. Somebody had to do it. T’Challa had accepted the mantle gracefully, as the royal he’d been bred to be.

Nevertheless, the Black Panther seemed weary now. His shoulders, tense. “Judging from the flight path we have pieced together, Stark may have been heading for New York. That distress signal was not merely a fluke. It was meant for us.”

The Avengers murmured their agreement.

Tony had yet to contact them again. That either meant he wouldn’t…or he couldn’t. Jim refused to entertain the latter.

T’Challa pulled up a holographic display –a map of the United States, likely preparing to launch a more in-depth analysis of the ground they’d searched.

Then, Jim’s phone rang. The beginning notes of a chorus began to play.

_‘…applause, applause, applause. I live for the applause-plause, live for the applause-plause, live for the…’_

The Tony in Jim’s memory –in his mind’s eye—threaded his arms around his husband’s neck, dapper in his tux. Steve moving with the music. Watching him, with an adoring eye. Tony danced, singing along with the music. _“…way that you cheer and scream for me…”_

It was Tony’s ringtone.

When Jim finally unfroze, he couldn’t fumble for his pocket fast enough.

The others watched in befuddlement –it wasn’t like Jim to answer his phone during a debriefing, particularly one designed around finding his best friend –but once he’d swiped the touch screen to answer, it didn’t take long for them to catch up.

“Tony?” he breathed, heart in his throat.

The Avengers froze.

For a long moment, the other end of the line was silent. Then, Tony sighed.

_“Okay, look. I know what you’re gonna say, and it’s not my fault.”_

Music to Jim’s ears. He let out a noise – a cross between a laugh and a strangled gasp. “Tony—”

 _“Fine, you got me.”_ Rustling in the background. _“It is my fault. But the not calling you for a week? Complete accident. Totally not the plan—”_

“Are you okay?”

Tony paused. _“What?”_ He seemed taken aback by the question, because of _course_ he did.

“Are you _okay?”_ Jim’s voice was hard, urgent. “Where the hell _are_ you?”

Another pause, for a beat or two. _“Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was a little, uh…unconscious. For the teeniest, tiniest second—”_

Ah, there it was. His regularly scheduled Tony headache. “How unconscious?”

Tony at least had the decency to sound sheepish. _“’I don’t remember most of this week,’ unconscious? But, it’s fine! Just a very_ _slight infection. A sort of collapsed lung—”_

“Sort of?” Jim managed to keep his voice level through sheer experience alone, though it was a near thing.

_“Okay it was collapsed, and now it’s not. No fuss, no muss, no more fever—”_

Another voice in the background. Deep. Familiar. Long-suffering. _“You’ve still got a fever.”_

Tony scoffed, his voice distant, likely thrown over his shoulder. _“It’s like, ninety-nine, nobody counts that.”_

Jim narrowed his eyes. “Who’s that with you?”

Silence.

If he hadn’t been suspicious before, he was now. “Tony?”

Finally, after another beat, Tony laughed. The sound tinged with hysteria. _“I literally can’t answer that. I’d need a bottle of Jack to answer that, and Carol will be mad if I drink before I get my six-month chip.”_

“Are they threatening you?” Rhodey was already headed for the armory, T’Challa keeping pace beside him, motioning for the other Avengers to fall into formation. “Tell me where you are. We’re coming to get you.”

Sam tapped furiously at his tablet as they walked, motioning Jim to keep Tony on the phone. Trying to trace the call, if he was any judge.

 _“He’s not a threat to me.”_ Tony hesitated; his voice soft. Reluctant. _“My sanity, maybe, but you know. There’s a lot of that going around.”_

Sam was looking at Jim and shaking his head, brow creased with frustration.

Jim took a breath. Told himself he loved Tony like a brother. Gathered up the frayed edges of his nerves for another attempt. “Tony. Please, just tell me where you are. We can’t trace your signal.”

Tony sounded suitably offended. _“Of course, you can’t. What do I look like, Justin Hammer?”_

Jim clenched his jaw. “Tony—”

_“Chill, platypus. I’m sending you coordinates. And stop grinding your teeth, it gives you those headaches.”_

Jim choked out a laugh, fond smile spreading across his lips. “I don’t take orders from you, Stark.”

_“Well, you should. I’m very thoughtful.”_

His phone buzzed, and he held it away from his ear. Put it on speaker to find a new text coming in. “I’m not even gonna ask how you did that.” He squinted at the coordinates. “What the hell are you doing in Nebraska?”

_“Sorry, the killer robot didn’t let me choose my location before I blew it up.”_

Jim’s voice rose a fraction. “The _what?”_

_“Uh-oh, Rhodey, our connection just got really bad.”_

“Oh, no you don’t.” Jim raised his voice. “Tony, don’t you _dare_ hang up.”

_“Can’t hear you, sorry. See you in a couple of hours. Oh, and if you wanna snatch me a suit on your way, I wouldn’t hate it.”_

“Tony, if you hang up that phone, so help me—”

_“Love you, bye!”_

_Click._

Jim sighed. He couldn’t help the smile spreading across his face.

Tony was alive. He could work with everything else.

The Avengers had all paused upon hearing Tony’s voice. They stood in the hallway outside the armory. Though most of them had a complicated relationship with their former leader, the atmosphere was one of palpable relief.

“Some will need to stay to defend New York.” T’Challa seemed all business, but there was an unmistakable grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Volunteers?”

“I wanna go with Colonel Rhodes!” Kamala thrust up her arm, and Jim smiled softly. The young woman tried to play it cool, but she had a lot of admiration for Tony, even now. Maybe especially now.

“I’ll go, too,” Clint interjected. His jaw had a stubborn set to it, though his voice was subdued. “Somebody owes our Shellhead a good talking to.”

The words were not unkind, and Jim searched the archer’s face—there was no telling what they’d find on the way. What state they’d find Tony in. He understood why Clint was upset with him, but this would be neither the time, nor the place to burn him at the stake for it.

“No funny business, Barton,” Jim finally replied. “Or I’ll ship you back here myself.”

“Scout's honor, chief.” Clint raised his right hand, palm up. His face crumpled. “I just…”

Jim softened. He placed a hand on the archer’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“As will I,” T’Challa intoned, his face determined. “It is decided. Stay in contact. And Jim?”

He turned back toward T’Challa, raising an eyebrow.

T’Challa smiled. “Call upon us if you are in need.”

Jim threw him a matching grin, sketching a mock salute. “You've got it.” He motioned his unlikely companions onward. “Let’s go.”

Jim _did_ snag Tony one of his older model suits he’d left at the compound–not that the little shit deserved it, for keeping him up all week, worrying –and with his entourage in tow, set off for that odd set of coordinates in middle-of-nowhere Nebraska. He in the War Machine armor, Clint on his air bike, Kamala clinging to the back.

None of them saw the three cloaked suits of armor, following their ascent.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, everyone! I have every intention of updating once monthly minimum, barring illness or extreme physical injury. But, we'll see what happens next. I'm moving at the end of the month, whumptober is right around the corner, and I know what I'm getting you all for Halloween! Thanks for being here, and as always:
> 
> Enjoy the ride.
> 
> \- Saber

“No, no, no,” Tony sighed. He snatched one of Steve’s white pieces from a square on the board. “You want your rooks in the corners. Like so.”

“Okay,” Steve grunted, blinking, wrinkling his nose. He plucked up the other rook and set it in the corner on the other end.

“Your knights.” Tony picked up a black horseman from his own side of the board, holding it between a thumb and forefinger. “Next to those.”

The warrior nodded in acknowledgement, still not looking at him. So serious, Tony almost _laughed._ “Done.”

“Then the bishops.” Tony pointed to each piece one by one, placing them in their assigned squares as his stern, broad-shouldered companion watched, with honest interest. “Then, the king and queen. The pawns are lined up in front of them. They’re like red shirts on _Star Trek,_ they’re the first to die.”

Steve fixed him with a blank, uncomprehending stare.

Tony gasped. He pressed a palm to his chest above the arc reactor, visibly aghast. “No _Star Trek._ You were alive for years in the twenty-first century, and no _Star Trek._ My poor deprived little lamb. What have they been feeding you?”

Steve glowered. “They wanted to do _Star Wars_ and _Doctor Who_ first, and movie night kept getting interrupted by super villains. We never got around to it.”

Tony winced. “Geez. No wonder you all split up. George Lucas’s dialog will put any relationship to the test. Okay. That’s okay, I can fix this. Soon as we get back to civilization, we’ll marathon the Original Series. You’re not allowed to leave without at least six episodes of Captain Kirk getting his shirt ripped off under your belt. Don’t worry, it won’t take as long as you’d think.”

“I’m sure,” Steve replied, dead pan. His _almost_ smile, however, said ‘reluctantly amused.’

“But for now, chess.” Tony positioned the rest of his pieces on the board. Steve mirrored him, looking more endearing than he had any right to, sitting at Talcot’s kitchen table in full plate armor. “Really though, _do_ you ever take that shit off?”

“No,” Steve ground, face never changing its dour expression. “I need to be battle ready at a moment’s notice. There could be an army of robots out hunting for you.”

“Well, they’re not here _now,_ are they? And I never said anything about an _army._ There was _a_ robot. Singular. I refuse to entertain further speculation: one, before Rhodey gets here. And two, before somebody teaches you to play a decent game of chess. Oh, Anakin. I have failed you. What was my alternate self even doing?”

“I understood that reference,” Steve huffed, placing the last of his pawns on the second row. “And it was usually about _who_ he was doing. Plural.”

Tony laughed. He enjoyed the verbal sparring, though his stomach was tied up in knots. He wasn’t looking forward to recounting his sad, woeful tale to anyone, least of all Rhodey. Hadn’t he disappointed the man enough for one lifetime?

That was a problem for future Tony. Right now: _chess._ Was he using it both as a game of wits and avoidance? Yes. Was it healthier than a pint full of _liquid_ avoidance? Also, yes.

Tony tightened his fingers around the last pawn as he set it down on the board, a little harder than he’d intended. His hand was shaking, and he balled it into a fist, hid it under the table before Steve noticed.

Hands were a common tell. Harder to control than your voice, or your face. The only thing Tony’d ever had more trouble with were his eyes. Too expressive for their own good.

Sunglasses fixed that, in public. Tony had been trained well, by both instruction and circumstance. He could have most crowds eating out of his hand at a moment’s notice. Every emotion he _couldn’t_ lock down, he spun to his advantage. People ate it up.

Tony shifted in his chair, pressing one hand to his healing wound. He was feeling better. Stronger, every day. And he’d be stronger still, if his bestie made good on his promise to bring Tony a suit, and he would. Rhodey was good for it.

He was overdue, come to think of it. Tony glanced anxiously at his watch, taking note of the time. Coming from the compound, he should have been here hours ago.

Maybe somebody wanted food or had to make a pit stop at a gas station bathroom. Potential killer robots on the loose had nothing do to with it, he was sure. _Completely_ sure.

It was fine. Everything was _fine._

Steve was watching him. His expression tranquil, but his eyes were soft. Molten mercury in a sculpted marble face.

Tony could see, with a huff, that he’d been made. God, he really needed to get his shit together.

“Look alive, my young Padawan.” Tony willfully pushed his trepidation aside. Clapped his hands. “Chess. First thing you wanna do—”

An explosion outside, distant. Both men froze.

Oh, come _on._

Steve cocked his head, listening. Super soldier hearing likely giving him more detail. He met Tony’s gaze a moment later, expression grim. Then again, grim was his default setting, so maybe that was just his face.

Another explosion. Accompanied by gunfire.

Or _not._

“That sounds promising,” Tony muttered, with a world-weary sigh. “What are the chances that was Talcot, trying to start his range rover again?”

Steve was already putting on his helmet. “Slim.”

“God _damn_ it. Fine,” Tony scoffed, moving towards the door. He activated his gauntlet watch, throwing a glance back at Steve –the Civil Warrior now, he supposed. “Don’t think this is gonna get you out of playing chess with me. We’ve got the board set up and everything.”

“Not you. _I’ll_ go.” Steve’s metallic voice was unyielding. He tapped his ear. “I’ll signal the all clear when it’s safe.”

Tony took a moment to make sure his own com was attached to his belt before treating Steve with an entirely unimpressed, upturned eyebrow.

“My best friend is late for the party, and we heard explosions. What about that could possibly make you think I’m staying _here_?”

Steve huffed. Tony could hear his exasperation even through the voice modulator, and it sent him to a happy place, despite his unease.

“You don’t have your armor, _and_ you’re injured. I can’t in good conscience allow you to come onto a potential battlefield without proper protection.”

Tony pressed a hand to his chest, with a mock gasp. “Oh, you’re right! How silly of me.” He traipsed back over to Steve, plucking up his shield from where it leaned against the table leg. “I’ll take that. _Thank_ you. Problem solved.”

“Wait.” Steve grabbed Tony’s arm as he passed – not hard. He could have slipped out of his grip if he’d wanted to, but it was the _principal_ of the thing.

Who did this guy think he was, anyway? Tony set his jaw. Glared into the blue-white glow of the Civil Warrior’s expressionless metal visage.

For a few long moments, both men said nothing. Tony braced for an argument. He may not have had his suit, but he was plenty handy in a fight, Iron Man, or no.

The Civil Warrior sighed. He grasped the edge of the shield. Took it gently from Tony, and turned it, so the straps were facing out.

Uh.

He motioned toward the straps, then Tony, with a jerk of his head. Tony blinked. Oh.

Okay.

Steve tightened the straps as Tony slipped his arm through. There was something absurdly intimate about the gesture. This shield had been a constant companion of the Civil Warrior’s, after all. One of the only things he had left of his friend, and he was just…handing it over?

Tony wasn’t just _surprised._ He was humbled.

“Keep it raised. Make sure it doesn’t tip your center of gravity, or it’ll throw off your balance. This is heavier than vibranium. That arc reactor in the center works.”

“I’ve trained with shields before, you know.” Tony held it at his side carefully. He narrowed his eyes. “That’s it. You’re just…not gonna argue.”

“Can’t see how it would make a difference. You know what you can handle. All I ask is that you let me take point. You’ll have the shield, but I’m still better protected. And, if it comes to a firefight, you fall back and let me draw their fire. Stay at range, take shots from afar. I can do a lot more damage with that shield than you can, especially with you injured. And, I suspect you’re a better shot with a repulsor than I’ll ever be.”

Something prideful within Tony bristled, but he couldn’t deny the truth. It helped that Steve’s counter arguments were tactical, rooted in logic. Not some misguided, personal desire to belittle poor, baseline human Tony.

 _Fine._ Tony was stubborn, not _stupid._ He gritted his teeth. “I can live with that.”

The Civil Warrior nodded, gliding towards the door as if he weren’t standing there in one-hundred and fifty pounds of armor. “Let’s go.”

The two men glanced at each other sidelong as they stepped foot outside. Tony had a moment to wonder if they should risk flight. A few moments, to be precise.

They needn’t have bothered.

A flaming chunk of metal –a gauntlet, that was a gauntlet, part of a _suit –_ sped toward them. Tony had just enough time to roll away before it struck the ground where he’d been. He ducked behind the rusted-out husk of a car and propped the shield up behind him, peering up at the sky from which it came.

There were more parts, raining down like meteors. The gun fire was coming closer, and that was War Machine approaching, hot on their heels. Tony’s heart rose and sunk at the sight. Because there was War Machine, but in pursuit?

Tony’s bastardized suits.

They _were_ his. There was no question about it now. ‘Rejects’ from his Iron Legion, decommissioned. Thrown into the vault, where they’d do no harm. Or so he’d thought.

This was wrong. It was _all_ wrong.

There was no rhyme or reason to the way the suits had cobbled themselves together. The parts were arranged nonsensically at best. Tony was surprised they were capable of flight at all.

Their forms were barely cohesive. The pieces battered, and joined by nothing but flickering nanobots, shimmering in and out of focus. Eyes glowing a malevolent red. The one closest to Tony had arms that were made up of two ‘right’ gauntlet pieces. Two ‘left’ greaves for the legs.

That’s what it got for trying to _dress_ itself without daddy’s help.

Tony laughed. Clamped down on the hysterical edge, because he didn’t have time. They didn’t have _time._

War Machine fired a series of photon torpedoes at the bastardized mech, and the nanobots rose from its body like mist. Formed themselves into a serpentine wave, shielding it from the bulk of Rhodey’s attack. It reared up, striking out as a unit, knocking War Machine aside like so much cannon fodder.

He hadn’t designed Technovore this way. It was meant to be _Tony’s_ shield. His protection, not… _this._ _Never_ this.

Focus. _Focus._

War Machine wasn’t alone. Hawkeye was right behind him, on an air cycle. Little Miss Marvel, clinging to his back. She was putting her stretchy, elastic limbs to the test, her hands grown to double their size. Shielding Clint from return fire, with varying results.

Kamala was taking hits like a champ, but she couldn’t catch everything. The shots seemed to hurt her, rubber skin or not. One made it past her focus, and it hit the engine of the air cycle, the machine going up in a ball of flame. Its passengers vacated at the last second.

Jet packs were a wonderful thing. Endlessly useful, and much more versatile than parachutes.

More molten metal rained down. Tony ducked his head under the shield, raising it above him. The shards bounced off the vibranium, and he raised his gauntlet with his other hand, but he needn’t have bothered from down here. The trio of suits was moving too erratically for a viable shot.

The Civil Warrior came up beside him, dropping into a crouch. “Stay down! It’s too dangerous for you without armor.”

“What the hell are you still doing down here?” Tony lowered the shield. Glared at him, indignant. “That’s my best _friend_ up there, I’m not just gonna—”

A shower of sparks rained down from above, cutting off his sentence, and the Civil Warrior shoved Tony’s head down, back behind the shield. “You’re my priority. I need to get you out of here in one piece! They can hold their own.”

Tony jabbed a finger in Steve’s face. “Oh, and I _can’t?!”_

“Don’t be obtuse!” Steve gave as good as he got, the _bastard._ He raised his voice. “That’s not what I meant, and you—”

“Hey, Shellhead!”

Both of their heads snapped up.

Clint was hovering above them, eyeing the Civil Warrior with blatant mistrust. There was something almost frightened about his expression. Equal parts perplexed and alarmed, as he took in the trademark colors on the shield.

The animosity didn’t shift much when his gaze rested on Tony. But, he did drop a familiar metal briefcase at his feet, eerily silent. Not saying a word.

Tony could have _kissed_ him.

His heart ached.

It was good to see him. Despite everything.

“Thanks, Hawke-ass,” he acknowledged, quiet, more somber than he’d meant to.

Clint stiffened.

There was too much bad blood between them. Too much to say that they didn’t have time for. But, to his credit, the archer attempted a smile. It mostly made him look constipated, but it was more than Tony deserved.

“Don’t mention it, fuck face.”

Tony couldn’t waste this opportunity. He couldn’t waste _any_ time. He tossed the Civil Warrior a glance, trusting him implicitly.

“Cover me.”

The Civil Warrior didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. Wordlessly, he took up position in front of Tony. A silent sentinel.

Tony grinned.

He slammed his foot down on the briefcase release. Shut his eyes. Spread his arms wide. He trusted Iron Man to carry him as the suit clamped itself around his legs, chestplate flipping up, and locking into place. This was an older model. His beloved Mark V, and it still fit like a glove. The helmet closed around his face, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Still had that new armor smell, and everything.

Tony turned to face Steve; arms spread wide. “Happy now?”

The Civil Warrior froze. For several long, telling moments. Then, he bowed his head, and Tony almost choked on his tongue.

“Happy, no.” He bent his head further. “But where you go? I follow.”

Tony’s breath caught, battle raging on above –it was a miracle something hadn’t shot them, while they’d been down here shooting the _shit_.

Nice of the murder bots, to let them have their moment.

He almost wished something _would_ interrupt, however, because a solid half minute passed, and Steve still hadn’t moved. His head remained bowed. His posture, the picture of fealty. Tony was reminded of the knights of old, swearing an oath.

“Knock it _off,”_ he scoffed. He cleared his throat, more choked up than he’d ever admit. “Stop that, you’re embarrassing me. Let’s go. Chop-chop! People to see, robots to roast. Here, take your shield. You’re freaking me out. Want me to knight you before we go? What is this, _Le Morte d’Arthur_?”

The Civil Warrior lifted his head obligingly. He took his weapon back, returning it to its rightful place on his arm. “No. Arthur dies.”

“You’re annoying.” Tony fought the smile tugging at his lips, even though no one could see it. “Shall we?”

The warrior inclined his head. “Lead the way.”

The murder bots stopped to stare upon their ascent, if stare was indeed, the right word. Their movements, halting. Shambling. And Tony was the lone, live piece of flesh they had to fight each other for.

Goody for him.

 _“Consume…”_ The closest one grated, inching closer to Tony, cocking its head.

“Uh, Tones?” War Machine glided up beside him, bumping shoulders with him as he passed. “I think it likes you.”

“Everybody likes me.” The other two Avengers followed suit and converged on their position, matching looks of befuddlement shot the Civil Warrior’s way, and the five of them hovered together, back to back.

“So, uh,” Tony gestured toward their three uninvited guests, with a tilt of his chin. “Count of three?”

Clint rolled his eyes. “What are you, five?”

“One, two, three, blah, let’s _go,_ guys! We’ve got robot butt to kick!” Kamala took the lead, waving back at them over her shoulder.

“I like the way she thinks,” the Civil Warrior returned. “Let’s move.” And, oh God, Tony was going to have to explain _him_ now. Oh _God,_ oh God.

One thing at a time.

“Still got those arrows, Clint?” Tony’s heart was in his throat. And, he was capital ‘N’ Not thinking about anything he may or may not have to explain, including but not limited to his dead husband’s monosyllabic doppelgänger.

“Say no more.” The archer drew one of the projectiles in question from his quiver. Tony had designed those arrowheads years ago, specifically to take down his armor, should the need ever arise. He could only hope they would still incapacitate whatever force was giving them to life.

These suits had no viable power source. His repulsor technology was kept under strict lock and key. Layers upon layers of security, more so even than his vault. Tony had _removed_ the arc reactors when he’d decommissioned them, for that reason.

So, how the hell were they flying around?

One thing at a time.

Tony’s last fight as an Avenger was something he also was _not_ thinking about. He was _still_ working on thinking about that, in _therapy._ But, being part of a team again? It felt right. Like a limb he’d been missing, or a Rubik’s Cube, with all the squares locked in place. The Civil Warrior fit right in. For a self-proclaimed lone ranger, he sure hadn’t forgotten how to function as a unit.

The bots didn’t stand a chance.

With Tony on scene, the bots were only focused on him. He was all too happy to play the red herring, in this case. The suits came after him. And, his team – _the_ team, not his –took them on like well-oiled machines.

Clint’s aim on the first one struck true. It hit the back of its neck and the nanobots _resonated,_ screamed, struggling to repair the damage. The nanobots, for whatever reason, seemed unable to hold themselves together after that. Without them to hold the parts up, one by one, they fell away. Back down to earth.

Tony took off like a bat out of hell –if they wanted him, he was gonna make them work for it – and both remaining bots trailed after him, quicker than he’d expected. He moved in a zigzag, positioning himself on his back. Firing repulsor blasts that struck his pursuers multiple times. Knocked them off balance.

The Civil Warrior used that opening. The star at the center of his shield retracted back into the vibranium, revealing the arc reactor. That beautiful _unreal_ reactor, at the center of the disc. He held it out in front of him, shouting a warning at the others to shield their eyes.

The resulting, blue-white repulsor beam roasted the shit out of the suit. Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.

Tony wanted a closer look at _that,_ later. Holy _shit._

Two down. War Machine was hot on the last bot’s heels, with Kamala blocking the path in front of it. She stretched out her hands, and it had to swerve to evade her grip. Knocked itself straight back into Rhodey’s waiting machine-gun fire.

The nanobots screamed, crumbled. Tried to rise and form a shield, but never quite managed.

The last bot fell.

A few awkward, uncertain moments passed while the five of them looked at each other askance. It couldn’t be that easy. Nothing ever was.

“All right, I’m gonna say it.” Kamala crossed her arms. “Anti-climactic much?”

Clint scoffed. “You can say that again.”

“Nope, hold on.” Tony pursed his lips, regarding the mismatched parts on the ground with a critical eye. “Wait for it.”

As if on cue, the nanobots, absent their gold-titanium counterparts, rose together like a red mist. They coalesced into a cloud. Hovered there, like a swarm of bees.

Tony smirked. “ _That’s_ more like it.”

War Machine sighed, shaking his head. “You had to say it.”

_“Oh, Tony…”_

A voice. Harsh, grating. It filtered through his com, and Tony jolted.

The Avengers stopped dead.

Oh, God.

The nanobots’ red glow flickered out of existence. They were dropping out of the sky. Dying _,_ one by one.

Oh, _God._

“How?” Tony managed, choking back a scream.

Laughter. Sinister, and deep.

 _“I’ve told you before. There_ are _no strings on me.”_


End file.
